Charity Begins at Home
by Connell
Summary: Life with the Atwoods before Chino.
1. Default Chapter

I do not own "The OC" or any of its characters. I just try to get inside their heads and mess with them for a little while.

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"C'mon, Ryan, we've got to go." Dawn stands in the open doorway to the boys' room. She's exasperated that he hasn't acknowledged her two other requests to get moving. Especially since he's already in for a world of trouble tonight. So, as she stands there, she begins to drum her fingers on the doorjamb in a way that lets him know that she's not going to take much more of this. She notes with growing frustration that he still hasn't put on his shoes. He's sitting, Indian-style on the bed and she knows that he's still hoping she'll change her mind. That she'll let him stay at home with Trey, instead of dragging him with her to the church.

"How come Trey doesn't have to go?" Ryan looks at his brother, who is sitting opposite him on the bed they share. There's a pile of baseball cards between the two boys and Trey is methodically going through them, quizzing Ryan and himself on the stats of their favorite players. Prepping them both for the start of the season. Assuming the season ever starts, or starts for real, considering the players are on strike and there wasn't even a World Series last year. But, she knows that Trey allows himself to be optimistic that the strike will end any day now and that it doesn't hurt to be well-prepared for when it finally does.

"Because the cigarettes weren't found in Trey's drawer." And the way she looks directly at Trey when she says it lets Trey and Ryan know that she doesn't believe for one minute that her 8-year-old took the contraband. But, John found the missing pack rolled in Ryan's balled-up t-shirt right after the kids left for school and Trey's not talking. So, unless there's a dramatic turnaround of events, Ryan will take the fall when his dad gets home tonight. Even though Trey has steadfastly refused to meet his mother's eye all afternoon and Dawn thinks he's concentrating just a little bit too intensely on Mike Piazza's statistics from a strike-shortened season.

"This is your last chance to come clean, Trey." Dawn crosses her arms in front of her chest and taps her left elbow with the fingertips of her right hand. She's impatient to get moving, but Trey's running out of time to own up to what he did. And Ryan's running out of time, too.

"Hey, Mom, did you know that Mike Piazza had an on-base average of .370 last year? That's pretty good, huh?" Trey reads from the back of the card and Dawn sighs audibly, knowing that there will be no confession forthcoming.

"Mom, I already told you I took them." Ryan offers quietly. And her younger son looks miserable. He's addressing his mother, but staring at Trey, like he's desperately trying to get his attention. Like he's desperately hoping that Trey will look back at him and Dawn's just certain he's sending his brother a mental message to let him off the hook. But, Trey's not biting.

"His slugging percentage was .541 and I bet it'll be even higher this year if the stupid strike ever ends." Trey's still concentrating on the back of the card and throwing around numbers that mean nothing to Dawn. She knows that he's purposely avoiding meeting his little brother's eyes and the silent plea contained therein. If asked, she'd freely admit to being more than a little surprised that Trey hasn't confessed already. That he didn't immediately give himself up. Because, despite Trey's wild streak, despite all of his cockiness, his backtalk and sass, he's always been the first to stand up and be accountable for his own actions. And he's always been protective of his little brother.

Too protective, if you asked Dawn. Too willing to stand up and divert attention away from Ryan, even on the rare occasion that it's Ryan who actually deserves the punishment and it's Trey who hasn't done anything wrong. Not that Ryan doesn't hold himself accountable on those occasions as well. He does. But, Trey has made an absolute art form out of getting his father to forget all about Ryan and to focus completely on Trey.

So, even though she has no doubt that Trey took the cigarettes, it's Ryan she can't leave here. Not when his father will be home before she has time to make it back from the church. And John had been so enraged when he'd left her with the angrily shouted instruction to get a confession. To let the boys know that if neither of them copped, Ryan would be the one on the receiving end of his dad's belt tonight. Because the cigarettes were in Ryan's drawer when they were found. Even though everyone knew that Trey's the one who took them. So, she'd delivered the message the minute they came through the door after school. Held up the cigarettes, told them where they'd been found and watched as both boys turned red, fidgeted and avoided her eye. Waited for Trey to tell her what they all already knew. So, she was surprised when it was Ryan who finally spoke. But, even as he admitted his guilt, she couldn't help but think that it was only after it became clear that Trey wasn't going to step forward.

"I took them, Mom. I'm sorry. " He spoke in a voice so low that Dawn had to strain to hear him. And Dawn's face showed her complete and utter disappointment in both boys. She was disappointed in Trey for not standing up and acknowledging his wrong and disappointed in Ryan for lying to her. For taking the blame for something he didn't do. He just seemed so little right then, so vulnerable. And it's really no great surprise, since he is little. He'd been appalled to discover that he was the shortest boy in his class when school started up again last fall and he'd gotten into a couple of minor scraps with some of the other kids because of it. Fighting that was encouraged by his dad, who thought it was the only way to stop Ryan from being bullied, since his diminutive size made him such a natural target.

And Dawn can't help but ask herself why Ryan is making such a fuss over going with her, since there's no way he can be looking forward to John getting home and the night he's facing ahead. At least if she takes him with her, his dad won't get a chance to punish him without her there. And, although she's not entirely sure why, she thinks it's important that she's present. She knows that John won't listen to her when she tells him to go easy on the boy. Or if she tells him that Ryan's had enough. But, she can at least say the words. And Ryan will know that she loves him, because she's trying to protect him. Even if she can't.

"Let's go." She jerks her head impatiently. Ryan looks at her plaintively, willing her with his eyes to let him stay. She can sense that he's got a reason why he's so desperate. That there's a reason why he wants her to let him stay. Even though his dad will be home before she will. Even though she won't be here when his dad takes out the belt. And she can't have that, because she has to be here to at least say the words. So, she shakes her head and turns down his silent request.

"_Now_, Ryan!"

If they don't leave soon, they'll never make it to the church before 6:00. Ryan finally looks away, admitting defeat. He takes a deep breath, holds it, releases it and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, pushing himself to an upright position. As he puts his foot in his right shoe, Dawn notices that the stitching has come away. She can see his white athletic sock poking through.

"Remind me to you need sneakers." She tells him. His small blond head bobs once as leans over and ties his laces.

Dawn looks to her other son. The one who favors John so much. And not just in looks, either. He's got that independent, defiant air about him that she used to find so attractive in her husband. Worldliness, she supposes, but also an intelligence that was hard to come by in the environment in which she grew up. Rare in the environment in which she's raising her children. Trey is a natural leader. No one could deny that for a second. He has a certain air about him that is unmistakable. And he's likeable. Too damn likeable if you ask her, despite his smart mouth and his rebellious streak and the constant pushing of boundaries. Just like his dad had been.

But, with John, the independence and the cockiness had somehow turned sour. Her husband doesn't seem so intelligent anymore. He seems beaten. Weary. And mean. He's turned into a bully who exerts power with his fists instead of the way he used to. With his intelligence and confidence.

Dawn seriously hopes that Trey won't follow in his dad's footsteps. And, while she decides that she's still angry and frustrated that Trey won't admit what he's done, she needs to know if shoes are a necessity.

"How're your shoes, Trey?" She asks.

"They're fine, Mom."

"Are you sure? It'll be another two months before we can pick up another pair."

"I said they're fine."

"And you're sure you don't want to come with us?"

"Yeah, right, Mom. No thanks. But, I'll dumpster-dive for dinner behind the McDonalds while you're gone, if it'll make you feel better."

Dawn considers reprimanding Trey, but decides against it. She knows how much the kids hate going to the church to pick up the box of food and the clothes that they offer every couple of months. Trey equates the process of going through the tables of clothing, shoes, coats and household items to picking through someone else's trash. Dawn doesn't think it's quite that bad. Not that it's her favorite activity, but they need the help. She's been unable to find work since the coffee house went out of business and John's only been able to pick up sporadic shifts lately. Like today's 10-6.

Rumors were that the plant was making more cut-backs, too. They'd eliminated all overtime and, while John had made it through the first two rounds of lay-offs, he was hanging on to his job by a thread. She wants a drink so badly, but knows that she can't. Not before she takes care of things at the church. Because if they smell it on her she risks losing the help. And they so desperately need the help right now. So she'll stay away from the bottle. She'll stay away until Ryan and she get home. Until John's finished punishing the boy and she's tucked him into bed and kissed his tear-streaked face.

Ryan finishes lacing his shoes and follows his mom out of his room, through the house and out the front door. He's sullen. Which isn't usual for Ryan, but makes sense considering what he's in for once John gets home. Dawn waits till they're walking the half mile to the church before she tries again.

"Ry, we all know that you didn't take the cigarettes."

"Yes, I did, Mom." He says quietly. And she can't help but note the inherent sweetness, the purity of tone he has. And, while she knows that adolescence will someday drop his voice by a couple of octaves, she floats a prayer that he keeps that innocent quality to his voice.

"You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do."

By the determination in his voice, Dawn knows that to argue would be pointless. So, her thoughts turn elsewhere. She remembers the first few times she went to the church. She'd so desperately tried to make the best of the situation and to get the boys clothing she thought they'd like. She remembers all too clearly her bitter disappointment when everything she'd so carefully chosen was received with little or no enthusiasm and never worn. She knew that the boys didn't like wearing clothing that had once belonged to strangers, but some if it was quality stuff and she'd mistakenly thought that sooner or later they'd have to relent. Because sooner or later they'd start looking like the Incredible Hulk in David Banner's clothing. The third time she went, she brought Trey home a red, white and blue Tommy Hilfiger rugby shirt and a Ralph Lauren polo. Small treasures she'd come across on a table that looked like it had been entirely picked over. She'd been close to tears when Trey barely looked at them, politely thanked her and put them away in his drawer, never to be seen again.

Two months later she'd insisted that the boys accompany her. That they pick out their own clothing. She told them in no uncertain terms that they had to wear what they chose. She'd been shocked when Trey agreed so readily. She was even more surprised with the boys' selections. Both chose well-worn t-shirts in solid colors. Trey added a few generic polos and Ryan settled on a navy blue Hanes' sweatshirt, even though there was a Nike sweatshirt in the same size. She'd gently tried to push the Nike on him, but he kept shaking his head, pleading with her to drop the subject with those big solemn eyes.

She'd been so relieved that the boys wore the clothes to school the next day that she no longer takes risks when choosing for them. Everything she takes home from the church is plain and threadbare and the boys wear them without complaint.

A few blocks from the church, Ryan starts acting up. He doesn't want to be there and is uncharacteristically asserting himself. Dawn listens to him gripe and moan. He starts whining about how he can wear Trey's old clothes, even though they both know he can't. Because Trey is tall and lanky and Ryan—Ryan isn't. They are two completely different body types and hand-me-downs will only work with the t-shirts. Ryan is desperate to go home and getting more desperate by the minute. Dawn finally snaps. She reaches down and grabs Ryan roughly by the shoulder. She smacks him once across the cheek, leans in and tells him to knock it the fuck off in no uncertain terms. Ryan grips the wrought-iron fence surrounding the church with his left hand and kicks at it with his right foot while his mother continues to scold him for his present behavior and for not telling the truth about Trey and the pack of smokes.

Father Kevin Fitzpatrick watches the scene unfold from his vantage point at the top of the rectory steps. He was about to cross the campus and head for the church's basement to oversee the end of the bi-monthly charity distributions when he observes the exchange between Dawn Atwood and her younger son.


	2. Chapter Two

Father Kevin sees Dawn and the boy before they reach the block where the church sits. As soon as he steps out of the rectory, he spots the two blond figures and recognizes them for who they are. Even though he can't yet see their faces. He glances at his watch and notes that they've got less than five minutes before the doors lock.

Even from a distance, Ryan looks petulant. He's a good six paces behind his mother and he's noticeably dragging his feet. Which is unusual, since the boy is generally so eager to please and because he knows about the church's strict 6:00 deadline for being in the door or being out of luck. Fr. Kevin can hear Dawn urging the child to hurry up. He can't make out the exact words, but he can hear it in her tone. He can also see that Ryan's not obeying, because there's no discernable change in the little boy's pace. It's almost like he's deliberately trying to make them miss the cut-off. And if that happens, he and his mother will have to return home empty-handed and the family will have to wait another two months for the supplies they so obviously need. Because the deadline is strictly enforced. For efficiency mostly. But sanity also, since a no-exception policy keeps the rectory doorbell from ringing at all hours of the day and night.

Pick up is every two weeks. It's always on a Tuesday, it's always from 3:00-6:00 and each family is scheduled just once every two months. If they miss the deadline, they're out of luck for the next 60 days. Because there are too many families and not enough resources and, while he wishes they could do more, it's impossible. The church is financially strapped, and despite assurances from Washington and New York, neither the church nor its parishioners seem to be experiencing any type of economic recovery.

Fr. Kevin's glad to see Dawn and Ryan. He's been worried about them. He's been worried about all of the Atwoods for a while now. When he'd first been assigned to the parish three years ago, he'd made it a point to try to meet all of his regular parishioners. He hadn't had to go out of his way to meet the Atwoods. John had been an usher and a second degree candidate in the K of C. Dawn'd helped out with the coffee and donuts in the cafeteria on Sundays after mass, when the kids were in CCD. Both were friendly enough, if a little rough around the edges. Not particularly well educated, skilled, or ambitious, they'd lacked the resources to climb out of the social position to which they'd been born. They had grown up in poverty and were raising their kids in poverty. And they didn't have the tools to make it any other way. The Atwoods were not unlike most of the other working-class families he counted among his parishioners.

Fr. Kevin had made an instant friend in Trey, the older son. Trey had an encyclopedic knowledge of baseball and Fr. Kevin had played a few years in the minors. He'd been a catcher, started with the Frederick Keys and made it all the way to Rochester's AAA club within the Oriole system before he'd succumbed to one knee injury too many. Trey had been awestruck at meeting a former pro player, even if said former pro player hadn't made it to the majors. Not even for one game. And even if said former pro player was now a parish priest at a church in an economically distressed neighborhood in Fresno. Fr. Kevin still enjoys engaging Trey in heated debates over the designated batter rule, whether Joe Jackson or Pete Rose will ever or should ever get a Hall of Fame nod and if Mike Schmidt or Brooks Robinson was the greatest third baseman ever. He's enjoyed having Trey on his CYO baseball team the last couple of years. The kid has a natural talent and a pure love of the game that's infectious.

Ryan's different. Ryan's been harder to figure out and Fr. Kevin is the first to admit that, after three years of trying, he still doesn't have a good handle on the boy. Part if it was his age, of course. Ryan was just five when Fr. Kevin started at the parish. But, even with time, he hasn't gotten any easier to decipher. Mostly because he's so quiet. So reserved. But, not particularly sullen. If anything, he's the opposite. Seems to want to be everything to all people all the time—except his mother right now. Fr. Kevin watches as Ryan stops in the middle of the sidewalk and says something to her. Again with the delay tactics when he's got to know that they're running late and any hold-up could keep them from getting through that door.

Fr. Kevin isn't certain that Ryan isn't doing it on purpose. That he doesn't know exactly what he's doing. Because, Ryan's smart. He's smarter than most people give him credit for being. Fr. Kevin suspects that Ryan will be underestimated his whole life. Because he's not as brash and outspoken as his brother, he tends to slip by under the radar, live life in the periphery. But he's acutely perceptive. He absorbs absolutely everything going around him. You can see it in his eyes, the way they dance from one speaker to the other, from one actor to the next. Fr. Kevin doesn't imagine that there's much that Ryan misses.

And there are some things Fr. Kevin hasn't been able to miss recently. Or not so recently—since about a year ago when the cutbacks started at the plant and John couldn't continue to get the shifts like he used to. John began working less, making less and drinking more. And when that happened, the whole family started pulling away from activities and friendships. Started isolating themselves. Dawn stopped volunteering. John stopped ushering. He ceased all participation in the K of C. Then Dawn lost her job and the family's attendance at mass became sporadic. The kids didn't always make it to CCD. Just a few days ago, Fr. Kevin noticed that Trey's name was glaringly omitted from the church's CYO spring-training roster.

With casual inquiry over the last few months, he had garnered some information. He'd been surprised when Chris Peña told him that the police had made several domestic calls to the Atwoods' residence and that the calls went back over a period of years. He wasn't as surprised when Officer Peña told him that the calls seemed to be escalating in frequency and severity. Or that Dawn wouldn't press charges, not even when they dragged John away to dry out in the jail overnight. The officer told him that Trey'd looked like he'd been on the wrong end of his father's fist one time when they'd answered a call. But, Trey wouldn't talk and Ryan wouldn't talk and the parents wouldn't talk, so the police did what they could. They hauled John in again—called DFACS. John was released the next day, no charges were ever pursued and DFACS had too many cases to worry about the one where no one's talking.

One of Ryan's teachers—another parishioner—approached Fr. Kevin about an incident she'd witnessed just a few weeks ago that had her convinced that Ryan was getting hit at home. She was at the school waiting for homeroom to start and realized she had forgotten something in her car. As she passed the playground before first bell, she'd seen Ryan just arriving on the campus. He looked like he'd been beaten up. He had a split lip and a split cheek. But before she could make her way over to him and ask him about it—before he even knew that she was there—he'd deliberately started a fight with a boy a few years older. A known bully who was twice the little boy's size. A fight he must have known he couldn't win. When questioned about it later, Ryan insisted that he'd been uninjured before the fight. The other boy was no help. Either he didn't notice, or he wanted credit for the damage. The teacher suspected that Ryan initiated the fight to cover up whatever went on at his home the night before. She'd talked to the principal, but he'd been there to hear the boys' denial. He didn't think the situation warranted anything more than a note sent home for the parents to sign and a week of detention. She'd even left an anonymous call to DFACS, but as far as she could tell, the phone call went nowhere.

When Fr. Kevin finally spoke to the monsignor about the Atwoods and raised his concern, he'd been told to leave it in the hands of the police and the teachers and DFACS. But, even with the church's blessing, Fr. Kevin knew there wasn't much he could do for the family. He knew it better than most. Because he'd grown up in a family not dissimilar to the Atwoods. In a place not dissimilar to this neighborhood and in which he'd occupied a position not unlike Trey's. As the oldest of three, he'd done his damnedest to keep his own abusive father away from his little sister and brother. And he'd sometimes failed. Oftentimes failed. So he'll reach out his hand. And he'll leave it outstretched. He'll leave himself available to Trey, to Dawn, to Ryan, to John. And hope that they'll come to him. Not that he thinks they will. Or that they will before he's transferred again. As a young priest, Fr. Kevin knows it won't be long till they move him to another church. It could be anywhere in the country. It could be somewhere abroad. Because that's the way the Catholic church works. Young priests are moved often. And Fr. Kevin has been in the same place for three years.

Fr. Kevin watches as Dawn finally snaps. She leans forward, slaps Ryan, grabs him by his shoulders and reprimands him, her face inches from his. She scolds him for a couple of seconds while Ryan keeps his head down, grips the wrought iron fence and kicks at the metal spikes. Dawn finally pulls him by a shoulder towards the steps leading down to the basement where the clothing and food are being given away. She shoves him towards the stairs and follows him down.

Fr. Kevin waits a minute, then continues his course to the church basement. He does what he's there to do. He locks the door and locates Mrs. Weaver. He takes the piece of paper on which she's kept a careful record of each family who made this week's deadline. He also keeps an eye on the Atwoods. He sees Dawn picking through the clothes and selecting a few items for herself, for her husband, for Trey. Ryan is apparently left to his own devices. But it doesn't look like he's trying much. He looks distracted as he lifts a couple of shirts. Puts them back without even looking at them. Tries on nothing. Keeps nothing. Dawn brings over a pair of jeans, holds them up for his approval, but he just shakes his head. Dawn's continued frustration with him is visible.

"We're not leaving until you have at least three shirts, two pairs of pants and new sneakers."

"They're not new."

"Well, they'll be new to you. Here, at least try these on." She extends the jeans towards Ryan again. Ryan makes no move to take them.

"C'mon, Ryan. Why not?"

"Mom, they've got elastic." Dawn looks down at the jeans she's holding. Notices the elastic waistband for the first time.

"So?"

"So, they're gay."

"They're not gay, Ryan. They're just pants. They're jeans. They look fine."

Ryan stands, silently shaking his head back and forth. Fr. Kevin crosses over to them just as it looks like Dawn going to make another attempt with the jeans.

"Hey, Dawn…Ryan."

"Hi Fr. Kevin." Ryan stops shaking his head long enough to greet the priest.

"Hi, Father."

The priest points at the jeans she's still holding out towards Ryan. "I'm not sure Katie Pennington had Ryan in mind when she gave us her old slacks."

Katie Pennington had been in Fr. Kevin's 8th Grade homeroom class back at Kennedy Jr. High School in Maryland. She'd been his first real crush. He's not sure why she's the first name that pops to mind. Dawn gives the jeans another once-over.

"They don't look girly to me." But he's planted the seed, because he can hear the uncertainty in her voice.

"They're _slacks_." Ryan says it like it's a dirty word.

"Well, then, you're going to have to find something without my help."

"Okay." Ryan lifts an indifferent shoulder and shuffles off to find something more acceptable. Dawn looks at his retreating form, then at the pants again.

"That bad? Really?"

"Not if you're actively trying to get him beat up at school."

"That's pretty bad." Dawn returns his grin with a small smile of her own.

"If you've got a minute—"

Dawn looks apprehensive, but nods. "Sure, Father."

"It's about Trey."

Dawn's face falls. "What's he done, now?"

"Nothing—it's nothing like that." Fr. Kevin's quick to assure her that Trey's not in trouble. "It's just—I just noticed that he's not signed up for baseball this year." Dawn frowns. Looks away.

"Yeah. Money's been tight. I—uh—I guess I don't have to tell you that."

"Maybe there's something we can work out."

"I don't think so. We really—we really can't afford it right now."

"What if I can get the fee waived?"

Dawn's face looks suddenly hopeful and he can tell that she's seriously considering it. "You can do that?"

"I can do that." Because it's imperative to Fr. Kevin that he gets Dawn to accept this. That he gets Trey back onto the team. Because the family will be just a little less isolated and he'll be able to keep an eye on the boy. "I want to do that. What good is a baseball team without its star shortstop?" The corners of Dawn's mouth pull down for a few seconds before she accepts.

"He'll be thrilled." She finally says. "Thank you."

Ryan's suddenly there. He wordlessly shoves a pair of Levi's at his mom.

"Did you even try these on, Ryan? Do they fit?" She holds them up skeptically. They're obviously too big.

"I like them."

"And in three years you could wear them."

"I can't find anything."

"I'll help you, but you've got to cooperate with me. You actually have to try this stuff on."

"I'm not trying on the girl jeans."

Fr. Kevin interrupts the bickering. "You playing baseball this year, Ryan?" Ryan looks up and meets Fr. Kevin's eye briefly before casting his eyes downward.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't play baseball."

"I know you don't—or that you don't, yet. Do you want to?"

"Not really."

As he sees the red creep into Ryan's face, Fr. Kevin knows he's going about this the wrong way. The little boy starts scuffing the toe of his left shoe back and forth across the floor. Follows it with his eyes. Ryan's young. He's not stupid. He knows that Trey's not playing this season. He knows that the family doesn't have the money for this right now.

"It's free. Your mom just told me that Trey's going to do it. Are you sure you don't want to play, too?" Fr. Kevin explains.

"I'm sure." Ryan still doesn't look up.

"What about something else? Something that isn't baseball?" When Ryan shrugs instead of flat out refuses, Fr. Kevin thinks he may be on to something. "You're right. Baseball is Trey's thing. You've got to get something of your own. Let me think what else we have going on this spring—track—basketball—there's a cheerleading camp, but only if your mom let's you get Katie Pennington's old skirt. I'm pretty sure it's still on that table. Next to where she found the jeans."

This gets a small smile from Ryan, which Fr. Kevin considers a major victory.

"Or soccer! What about soccer?"

"Soccer?" Ryan doesn't seem overly enthusiastic.

"Soccer. Actually, I think you'd do well in soccer. It's all about being scrappy, being quick." The corners of Ryan's mouth turn down in the exact same way as his mother's had a few minutes before. It seems like forever before he finally lifts a shoulder.

"Yeah. Okay, I guess."

Ryan allows himself to think it might even be fun. Because he knows kids from school who play soccer. Dan O'Neil is supposed to be good and he's not that much bigger than Ryan. So he might even have a chance at not sucking. Not that he'll be as good as Trey is in baseball. But, at least he won't be compared to Trey. Trey doesn't play soccer. But maybe Ryan would.


	3. Chapter Three

A/N: It's kind of a weak chapter. My apologies.

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Ryan inattentively picks through the random assortment of used t-shirts while his mother speaks with Fr. Kevin across the room. He looks over to the adults periodically, waiting for Fr. Kevin's expression to change. He's looking for the flash of anger, the frown of disappointment—any indication that his mom has told the priest that Trey took a pack of his father's cigarettes. That they were found rolled into a t-shirt in Ryan's drawer. And that Ryan is telling a lie to cover for his brother. He half expects Fr. Kevin to call him over, to march him up to the church and to deposit him in a confessional. He almost wouldn't mind. He's not that far removed from First Holy Communion that he doesn't apprehensively wonder if it's a mortal sin.

Oh, he knows it's not one of the seven deadliest. At least not by name. But he also knows that it was done with full knowledge. It was done with deliberate consent. And it made God less a friend. At least by the way Fr. Kevin described it. Because it's made him feel crappy every second since he did it. It's made him feel guilty and nervous.

But, either his mom isn't going to tell Fr. Kevin, or she just hasn't told him yet, because the priest smiles and says something that makes Dawn laugh. It's just a short bark that she reigns in quickly when it comes across too loud and too harsh in the close confines of the church basement. When she scans the room to see if anyone's noticed, she catches Ryan's eye. She holds up a finger. She'll be there in a minute.

He looks back down at the table, picks up a blue shirt and unfolds it. He's disappointed to see that it has a decal of a fish that takes up most of the front. So, he folds it back the best he can and replaces it on the table. The white pocket t–shirt he picks up next has a noticeable stain in a conspicuous place. He returns that, too. He spots a red shirt, faded almost to pink. Not a color he would ordinarily choose, but there's not much of a selection this late in the evening. When he holds the shirt up for closer inspection, he sees that there's nothing particularly distinctive about it, so he puts it in the crook of his arm and looks for another. Several minutes later, he has added two long-sleeved shirts in gray and navy and a Fruit of the Loom gray hooded sweatshirt.

Ryan checks the clock on the wall and sees that it's almost 6:30. He knows that his dad will be home soon and he wishes that he were home, too. Even though he's nauseous just thinking about what will happen when he gets there. Even though he feels like he's got a couple of pterodactyls fighting for the territorial rights to his stomach. And he's felt this way ever since he got home and saw his mother holding the Marlboros. Ever since his mother demanded to know who took them. And Trey stayed quiet. And Ryan confessed.

He wishes he could have found the words to convince his mother to let him stay at home with Trey tonight. But, he could tell by her tone, by the way she was standing and tapping her fingers impatiently on the doorjamb that there were no words to make her change her mind. So he didn't even try. Even though his father will be coming home in a matter of minutes now. And when he does, Ryan's certain he'll do one of two things. He'll decide that he doesn't care that Dawn and he aren't home, because he already knows that Trey's the one who took the smokes. Or he'll wait for Dawn and Ryan to get back. And if he decides that he already knows that Trey took the smokes, he won't wait to lash out at him with his belt. And if he waits for Dawn and Ryan to return, he won't be sitting idle. He'll be drinking. And the later Dawn and Ryan get back, the drunker he'll be. The meaner he'll be. The more pissed off he'll be. So Ryan wishes he could have found the words to make Dawn let him stay at home. But he couldn't. Because she didn't want to hear them.

He starts looking through the pile of pants on the table again. He's hoping to find something before his mother comes over, so that she doesn't try to force the ugly pants on him again and so they can leave more quickly. So they can see if Trey's hurt. And if Trey's not hurt, then so his father has a chance to be a little less drunk, a little less mean and a little less pissed off when he strikes Ryan with the belt.

He finds a pair of jeans that he missed the first time around. He thinks that they just might work. A few minutes later he finds a pair of khakis. The bottoms of the khakis are frayed from use, but the pants are too long, anyway. If they fit otherwise, they can be shortened. Ryan knows his mother won't let him leave before trying on the pants, so he makes his way over to the curtain that's been set up in a corner of the room for just this purpose. He turns to see where Dawn is. Catches her eye. She's at the shoe and belt table. If she can find a pair of sneakers for him and if the pants work, they could be close to going home. He lifts the pants to show her that he's going to try them on. Dawn nods and goes back to picking through the shoes.

Ryan enters the dressing room and tries on the jeans. They're big, but fit well enough. The khakis are several inches too long, but otherwise adequate. He considers himself done. He gets redressed and folds the pants he's taking with him. He's about to slip his shoes back on when Dawn pulls back the curtain.

"Mom!"

"Oh, relax, Ryan, I can your legs from out here. I know you're not naked."

"These fit." He hands his mother the pants, then continues when she doesn't look as if she believes him. "The tan ones are long, but you can shorten them, right?"

"Yeah, sure." She takes the pants from him. "Here, try these on." At first, Ryan thinks that his mom's going to try to force those girl jeans on him again. But, he quickly sees it's much worse.

"No." He shakes his head and makes no move to take the shoes his mother is holding out to him.

"C'mon, Ryan. They're not 'gay.' They're not girly. They're a pair of boys' sneakers, they're in good shape and they're your size."

Ryan continues to shake his head. He can't take the sneakers from his mom. He won't. Because those particular Adidas sneakers used to claim Tommy Browning as their owner. And Ryan knows this instantly, since the middle stripe has been colored by a blue Bic ballpoint pen. A middle stripe that Ryan watched Tommy meticulously fill in during a detention both boys served several weeks before. When Tommy forgot to hand in his third math assignment in a week and Ryan fell asleep during Language Arts.

"I'm not doing this, again, Ryan. Not tonight. Not when you're already in trouble."

Ryan's chest and throat constrict and he finds he's having a little trouble swallowing. And a lot of little trouble breathing. He doesn't want to fight with his mother, but he can't take the shoes.

"I don't want them."

"I don't care."

"I'll find another pair."

"There is no other pair. Not in your size. Not even close."

"Then I'll keep these." He gestures to the shoes he was about to put back on.

"No. Uh uh. Those are coming apart."

When the little boy still makes no move to accept the sneakers, his mother leans close to him, her voice quivering with the frustration and anger that's been building all evening. She puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes hard. "So help me, Ryan, do not make me hit you in front of God and everyone else here."

Ryan feels his face grow hot and he waits several seconds before he raises his eyes and quickly scans the room to see if anyone heard his mother's words. Fr. Kevin has his back to them and no one else seems to be paying attention.

"Please, Mom." His voice quivers a little and he's surprised to find how close he is to tears. He clenches his jaw tightly and tries to fight them back. He can't look at his mom. He can't look at the shoes. So he focuses on the floor.

His mother is still bent over, still painfully gripping his shoulder. She reaches down and takes his old sneakers off the floor. She drops Tommy Browning's shoes at his feet and straightens.

"Well, now you have no choice."

Dawn picks up the clothing Ryan chose for himself and walks over to where she had put the rest of their stuff. On the table, next to the box of food they'll be taking with them. Rice, pasta, tuna, peanut butter, boxes of macaroni and cheese, hamburger helper. Nothing special or fancy. But appreciated and needed.

And as she walks off, Ryan's horrified to find that his eyes are wet. He blinks and swallows several times trying to contain the tears that threaten to spill down his face. A single tear escapes. He angrily brushes it away with the back of his hand and puts on Tommy Browning's shoes. His hands are shaking as he ties the laces. As he rises from his crouched position, he's still desperately trying not to cry. He looks around and sees a stack of collection baskets. Tommy Browning's shoes kick them. It's a stack of 12 and it topples over, scattering the baskets in a couple different directions.

Ryan quickly looks up to see if someone notices. Someone does.

"Were they looking at you funny?" Father Kevin is suddenly at Ryan's side.

"No, Father." The little boy mumbles.

"Did they make fun of your mother?"

Ryan's face turns a darker shade of red. "No."

"What's going on, Ryan?"

"Nothing."

"Really? You beat up my collection plates and nothing's going on?"

Ryan doesn't know how to answer, so he doesn't. He can tell that Fr. Kevin is disappointed. Fr. Kevin sighs and shrugs, resigned that the boy's not going to converse. "Okay, so you're not talking. I was coming over here for a reason, even before I saw you assault my collection plates. Soccer practice starts tomorrow. They're on Wednesdays, 4:30-6:00 at the St. Pius fields. I'll let Coach Kirvan know to expect you. Let's just hope you kick the ball as hard as you kicked my poor baskets."

Ryan nods, since he doesn't know what else to say. He's anxious to leave the church, so he quickly picks up the baskets. Restacks them. Mutters a "sorry" in the priest's general direction and joins his mother at the food distribution table. Fr. Kevin follows a few feet behind. Dawn hands Fr. Kevin her son's old sneakers. Fr. Kevin inspects them, notes their poor condition, and puts them in a box filled with trash. Any hope Ryan harbors in regaining possession is instantly dashed.

"Are you taking the bus?" Fr. Kevin asks, as he picks up the box of food with "Atwood" written in black bold ink on the side.

"Yes. There's too much for us the two of us to carry all the way home." Dawn admits.

"Let me carry this out to the bus stop for you."

"Thank you, but you've done enough for us already."

"Nonsense." Fr. Kevin lifts the box easily and Ryan and his mother gather up the rest of their newly acquired possessions.

As he leaves them at the bus stop, Fr. Kevin turns and asks Ryan if he'll be taking Communion on Sunday.

Ryan shifts uncomfortably. "No, Father." Because if he goes to church on Sunday, he can't take Communion. He can't take Communion until he confesses what he's done. Confesses about the cigarettes. When Fr. Kevin lifts an eyebrow, Dawn quickly interjects.

"I'll bring Trey and Ryan in for Confession on Saturday, Father. I'm pretty sure that between the two of them, they'll be able to come up with something that's worthy of absolution."


	4. Chapter Four

Author's note: A sincere thank you to all who have reviewed and all who continue to do so. You are all way too kind! The usual disclaimers apply: Schwartz & Co. own everything. I own nothing. Oh, and according to the instruction, I pulled the story and reposted when my latest version never appeared after posting. Now all my reviews have been wiped out. Four chapters and not a single review. Sad! So sad.

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John's tired. He's just come off shift and he wants to be home. Which is not exactly true. Since he'd rather be working another shift. Or longer hours at the one he's on. He'd rather be coming home bone-weary and utterly exhausted to a dark house and a sleeping family. But, that's not an option. Not since the plant's been making the cutbacks and the layoffs. Not when he's lucky to pick up any shifts at all.

"This is me." Gordon says, turning to head down the aisle to his car. "You sure you don't want to grab a beer?"

"Not this time." John turns down the offer. Ordinarily he'd indulge. Or at least he'd be tempted. But he's got to watch the money. And he's got to go home and discipline Trey.

John flicks his wrist, giving Gordon a three fingered half-salute and continues to where he's parked the pickup. He digs the keys out of the right front pocket of his jeans, climbs into the cab and says a silent prayer as he holds down the clutch, turns the ignition and stomps on the gas. The engine coughs, sputters and dies. As it does the second and third time he turns the key. He pounds the steering wheel in frustration, runs his fingers through his hair and attempts to rub some of the tension out of the back of his neck. He waits several seconds to avoid flooding the engine and he tries again. A few more attempts and the old truck finally rumbles to a start. John's relieved, since knows it's only a matter of time before the pickup kicks the bucket for good. There's a problem with the starter, but it's not worth the money to repair, since the head gasket is cracked. He's welded the crack shut, but it's not a permanent fix. It's not even a particularly effective fix, since the truck still overheats even on the short drive to and from the plant. John knows he'll have to resort to taking the bus when the pickup finally dies. He can't afford a new head gasket. He can't afford a new car. Hell, he can't afford a fucking packet of Chicklets right now.

As he lights a cigarette and cracks open the window, he wonders how everything got so fucked up. Though, if he's honest with himself, the real question is how he managed to keep everything so surprisingly in control for so much longer than expected. Than anyone would have expected for him—and for Dawn. He's known Dawn practically all of his life. They'd gone to grade school together. They ran with the same crowd for most of high school, but didn't get together until the end of 11th grade. They finally hooked up when Dawn threw herself at him one night after they all got drunk in Joey Thatcher's basement. Dawn and John married right out of high school and Trey was born seven months later. A "party favor" Dawn used to call him, convinced that he was conceived the night of their senior prom. Though how she could determine that he was conceived that night and not two nights earlier or the night after was beyond John. He didn't argue the point. He just married her.

No one thought they'd make it. Not her family. Not his. But they were making it. They were doing pretty okay. Or they had been doing pretty okay. Until now. Until the last year or so. Well enough that Ryan had even been planned. Because they didn't want Trey to be an only child, and, with two steady jobs and two regular paychecks, they thought they could handle the responsibility of having another. They'd even been hoping for a second boy, so Ryan's birth had been welcomed and celebrated. So much different than when Trey was born. When Trey was born, they'd been scared to death. They were just couple of kids who didn't have a clue. At nineteen, they couldn't quite believe that the hospital was actually sending them home with a human to raise. Without a manual. Without instructions. Without any direction.

Truth be told, they weren't much better prepared when they took Ryan home. Truth be told, they weren't any better prepared, but at least they'd seen Trey through his first few years and they hadn't managed to kill him. At the time, he'd supposed they'd even done an okay job. They liked Trey. Others seemed to like him. He was a nice kid, a sweet kid, if a little mouthy. The mouthiness was a trait they each had openly attributed to the other, but quietly claimed as his or her own. Since they'd been secretly proud when Trey'd talked so early, talked so often, and been so pushy and opinionated from the get-go.

Ryan's different. He's always been different. He's always been quiet. Even when he was a baby, he just kind of sat and absorbed everything going on around him, his eyes shifting between John and Dawn and Trey. Taking in everything, even as he was mostly ignored. Well, not ignored, exactly. But his milestones not noticed, not photographed, not recorded in the minute detail Dawn had assumed with Trey. Trey was always so high-maintenance, so hands on, so demanding of Dawn's time and attention. So unlike Ryan. Because as long as there was something to watch, Ryan was fine. He was more than fine. He was content. He was an easy baby.

He was so easy that there were times John and Dawn almost forgot Ryan was there. Almost forgot he was in the room with them. They'd step over him to continue a task, to bring something to Trey, to cross the room. And Ryan would let out a howl of frustration. It was only then that they'd realized that the kid was making his way to them. That he'd finally gotten there, finally reached his destination, only to be stepped over like an obstacle in his parents' way as they hurried to attend to other matters. More pressing matters. More demanding matters. It was in those moments that it was patently clear that the kid had the infamous Atwood temper, as quiet and reserved as he seemed. The baby had inherited the hair-trigger temper. The hair-trigger temper sits there in Ryan, just under the surface. Just like it does with John and just like it does with Trey.

John knows that Ryan adores Trey. He always has, even though Trey's always been rough with his little brother. Even though as soon as Ryan could crawl and stand, Trey was shoving him over, tackling him, sitting on him. And Ryan just took it for the most part. Smiled even. Laughed. John and Dawn had to resort to tickling Ryan when he was an infant to get him to laugh, but Trey could make him giggle and squeal just by talking to him. By playing with him. Those had always been the best moments for John. Early in the morning, lying in bed. Hearing Trey get up and cross over to his brother's crib. Waking the baby. Making the baby laugh. Dawn and he had groaned about the earliness of the hour and the annoyance of Trey consciously waking the baby when all they wanted was a few more minutes of sleep, but they'd both readily admitted to enjoying the interaction between the boys. The interaction that had nothing to do with John and Dawn. The special way that brothers bond.

John takes a deep drag on the cigarette and expels the smoke only when he can hold it no longer. Because he doesn't want to be thinking about how good Trey had been with the baby. Not now. Not now, because he's on his way to kick Trey's ass. Again. And he doesn't relish it, because he's been disciplining Trey a lot lately. Trey's been in almost continuous trouble for a long time now—the poor grades, the attitude, the backtalk and the constant bitching about the baseball, even though they'd told him that the money just wasn't there. Trey'd whined and moaned and complained for days. He'd been a completely miserable little prick, until John finally took the belt to him. And John finally took the belt to Trey because reasoning with him didn't work and telling him to shut the fuck up about it didn't work. The belt worked. Trey'd finally stopped asking about baseball once John'd tanned his backside with the broad leather strap.

John takes no pleasure in disciplining the boys. He'd rather be out with Gordo and the rest of the guys bending his elbow at The Grog. He'd rather be bringing home pizza and videos and talking about Disneyland in the spring. Hell, he'd rather be working another shift. The last thing he wants to do is go home and kick Trey's ass. But he has to. Because Trey took John's smokes and he hid them in his little brother's drawer. And, to make matters worse, when John asked him about the pack that was missing from the carton, the little punk denied it. He'd met John's eye. He'd returned John's accusation with a defiant look and he'd lied. He'd flat out lied. And John can't let him get away with that. So John has to go home and deal with Trey.

John certainly can't leave it to Dawn to discipline Trey. Dawn is inconsistent in her punishment. She is constantly threatening the boys, asking them if they _want_ to go to their room. If they _want_ to go to bed without dinner. Like she needs an answer. Like the topic is up for debate. Empty threats, mostly. And the boys know it. Oh, Dawn will snap and get physical with them when she's really frustrated, really aggravated, really angry. But mostly she threatens the boys—and mostly, they ignore her. John knows that high-spirited boys like Trey cannot be disciplined in that manner. John is as certain about this as he is about anything else in his life. Because John had been a high-spirited boy once. And he'd been on the receiving end of his own father's belt more times than he can count. The receiving end of his own father's fists, his own father's boots. And it had made a difference. It had made him think twice before acting out, before disrespecting his parents, before getting into trouble. Even though he still did.

It's because John remembers what it's like to wait in fear of an anticipated beating that he knows that Trey is at home right now dreading his return. And he is not entirely comfortable with the thought that his older son is probably conjuring up all manner of his own bloody demise—anything that would prevent John from coming home tonight. He is not entirely comfortable with the thought that his own sons fear him. Even though they do. But, since the punishment cannot be avoided, John reassures himself that at least he has Trey's attention—and he needs to have Trey's attention right now. Trey is at a time in his life when the line has to be drawn. The fist has to come down. Literally. Or they will lose him. Trey's already acting out—he's already cocky, mouthy and defiant. He's already stealing and lying. And, he can already look his father right in the eye, meet his father's gaze dead-on and lie about the stealing.

Once they lose control of Trey, John knows that Ryan won't be far behind. Oh, Ryan's a good kid. A smart kid. But, he's young, he's easily influenced by his brother and he's got that patented Atwood hair-trigger temper. The temper that has a way of overriding better judgment. A trait Ryan displayed a few weeks back when he challenged John during an argument John was having with Dawn. An argument over money, of course, since all their arguments seemed to be over money these days. Dawn had been the first to get physical. She had slapped John when he accused her of being frivolous with her spending. When he had snapped in frustration over her continuing failure to find a job. When he had called her a hateful name. And when Dawn hit him, John had reacted instinctively, his judgment clouded, as it so often was these days, by the alcohol he'd consumed.

Dawn was bleeding from her mouth and from her nose when Ryan came into his parents' bedroom and confronted John. When Ryan told John to leave his mother alone. And if John hadn't been so enraged, so drunk, so out of control, he would have known how afraid Ryan was. He would have seen it by the flush in Ryan's cheeks and by the way his body visibly shook. He would have heard it in the way Ryan's voice came out in those short little puffs—winded as if fighting his lungs for the very breath to speak—when he demanded that John stop. That John stop hurting his mother. If John hadn't been so livid, so drunk, so beyond reason, he would have seen how small Ryan was when he placed himself between his parents. He would have seen how much courage it took the little boy to grab his father's arm in an attempt to physically stop him from beating his mother. Instead, Ryan had managed to redirect the brunt of his father's anger to himself. Something Trey often did. Something that Ryan had never done before that night. Because Ryan had never had to. And he wouldn't have had to on that particular night if Trey'd been home. But Trey had not been home.

John kicked the shit out of Ryan that night. He'd started punching and he hadn't stopped until the little boy was a bloody, broken mess. And he'd only stopped then because the pain emanating from the knuckle on his right index finger finally penetrated his alcoholic fog. He'd only stopped when the throbbing from his closed fist let him know that he'd gone too far. That he'd damaged the little boy much more than he had intended. Not that he intended to hurt Ryan at all. It just happened. Because John was drunk and he had reacted without thinking. Something he's doing more and more.

John shakes his head, concentrates on the road ahead and stops thinking about the mistake he made a few weeks back. Because he won't lose control tonight. Tonight he will be disciplining Trey with calculation and deliberate intention. Or he will be disciplining Ryan with calculation and deliberate intention, if Trey hasn't come clean. Not that he entertains that thought seriously. Because everyone knows that Trey took the smokes and that Trey is not about to let his little brother be punished for something Trey did. Hell, Trey wouldn't let Ryan take a belt to the backside for something Ryan did. John knows this because John knows in his heart that Trey is still a good kid. That Trey is still fiercely protective of his little brother and that Trey would do anything to make sure that Ryan is unharmed. Despite his recent fuck-ups, his recent attitude, his recent foray into petty theft, Trey is still a good kid. And John feels badly that he's in route to kicking Trey's ass, even though it's absolutely necessary.

And, while it does nothing to make him feel better about the night ahead, John decides that he'll throw a ball with Trey this weekend. He'll take his son out to the St. Pius fields or to the park and the two of them will have a catch like they used to. Like they haven't in a very long time. Because he knows how much Trey wants to play baseball—and because his heart aches that he can't even give Trey that simple pleasure. But, he can't. The money just isn't there.


	5. Chapter Five

Usual disclaimers apply about owning not a thing. Author's note at the end.

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_"…Nineteen…twenty…twenty-one…twenty-two…twenty-three…twenty-four…twenty-five."_

Trey waits. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed he shares with his younger brother and he has an open book in front of him. Matt Christopher's "Return of the Home Run Kid." He's not reading, though. He tried, earlier, after Ryan and Dawn had left for the church and when he knew it was still too soon for his dad to be coming home. When there was no chance he'd miss the headlights. He'd read the same paragraph four times. He still couldn't tell you what it said.

The shade on the window is up and the only light in the room comes from the small lamp on the table next to his side of the bed. He's kept the overhead light off because knows that, in the relative darkness of the small bedroom, the twin beams from his father's pickup will be noticeable as they illuminate the room for that brief second when he pulls into the drive. Not that he needs the lights to signify his father's imminent arrival. The house is silent and he'll hear the truck's distinctive rumble even before he sees the headlights. He'll hear the truck when it's still blocks away.

Trey looks down at the book again, but gives up without processing a single word. He knows that any attempt to read is futile when he's this anxious. When he's this on edge. So he sits on the bed, stares out the window and counts to 25. He tells himself that his father will absolutely, positively pull into the driveway by the time he reaches 25. But he doesn't. Just as he hasn't the half dozen other times Trey's counted to 25. John and the truck are still nowhere to be seen. They're nowhere to be heard.

Trey's not even aware that he's been holding his breath until he releases it in a long, exasperated stream. He takes the book and hurls it away from him with as much strength as he can muster. It bounces off the closet door with a loud thump and lands on the floor a few feet away. He can see that a page has come loose from the glue of the binding by the way it sticks out at an odd angle from the rest of the pages. Which is just perfect—it's just his luck.

He briefly entertains the idea of ripping the page completely free, discarding it and telling Mrs. Marks that it was already missing when he took the book out on loan. Or not saying anything at all. But, he disposes of the notion almost as quickly as it comes to him. Because, if he does that, the last kid who took the book may get blamed. Or the next kid will. Or some other kid. So, Trey knows that when he returns the book, he'll point out the damage, and he'll take the lecture, the note, the detention, the—the whatever—he's got coming to him for being a moron and throwing the stupid book.

_"…22—David McCarty; 23—Steve Scarsone; 24—"_

Trey's hung up on 24. He's corresponding the numbers he's counting to this year's expectant Giants' roster. He'd been stuck on three and four until he remembered they were retired. Three was Bill Terry, four was Mel Ott. Five—he couldn't come up with a five and a few others, 15, 16, 20. And now 24. 16—okay, 16 is a crap number. He could maybe see why no one's wearing 16 right now—but 24? Somebody's got to have 24—

Until it comes to him that 24 is also retired. It's been put to rest like the three, the four, the 11. And he's amazed that he didn't remember this immediately. He's more distracted than he thought. Because, any other minute of any other day, he wouldn't have had to hesitate to know that 24 is no longer active. That it's not only retired, but it belonged to the best and most famous Giant ever. Fr. Kevin's favorite player. Arguably the greatest player of all time.

_"…24—Willie Mays; 25—Barry Bonds."_

Trey's beginning to worry that his father stopped off for a drink on his way home. That his father's at The Grog right now, downing boilermakers with his coworkers, or he's throwing back beers with his buddies at the neighborhood bar. He's tempted to run the three blocks to The Oak Table so he can search the parking lot for his father's truck. He's tempted, but he doesn't. He can't. He needs to be at home when his father arrives and—more importantly—he can't risk _not_ being home if his mother and brother get there first.

Ryan had been so scared this afternoon. Trey thought he was going to piss his pants when Dawn held up the pack of Marlboros, told them where they'd been found and asked Trey to come clean. Oh, she'd made the demand of both boys, but she'd been looking straight at Trey. She'd been staring right at him when she asked the guilty party to fess up. Trey hadn't said a word, he'd stared right back and he didn't say a damn thing. He was quiet for so long that it was Ryan who finally broke the silence. It was his brother who finally mumbled.

"I took them, Mom. I'm sorry."

And _that_ wasn't what Trey expected. It wasn't what he intended, or wanted. It wasn't even close. He'd been on the verge of telling his mother that he was the one who took the smokes when Ryan spoke. So much so that his mouth was even starting to form the words. But he broke it off as soon as Ryan confessed. And in the seconds that followed, in the face of his mother's visible disappointment and in the face of his brother's almost palpable anguish, Trey stayed mute. At the time, he'd been rendered speechless more from the surprise of hearing Ryan's mumbled admission than anything else. But—now that he's had a chance to think about it—he's decided that he's okay with the way everything's played out. In retrospect, it's perfect.

It's perfect, because if both boys had stayed quiet or if Trey had confessed, his mother would have hauled him kicking and screaming to church with them. She never would have permitted him to stay at home. She would have insisted that he go with them and dig through all the depressing piles of worthless crap that other people threw away. He'd have had to see Fr. Kevin and pretend that everything is okay. That he has no worries other than the baseball strike and the major league season that's doomed to open with a bunch of scabs. He'd have to explain why he isn't signed up for baseball this year and he'd have to act like he understands and accepts that his father can't come up with the $50 for him to play.

Even though he doesn't understand and he doesn't accept it. He doesn't accept it at all. It sucks. It's completely and totally unfair. His father still comes up with the money to buy things for himself. He still manages to find the money to buy the cartons of Marlboros, the cans of beer, the nights out with his friends at the Oak. His mother finds the money to buy the makeup, the hair dye, the bottles of liquor. So, really, the only ones who've been asked to give up anything at all are Trey and Ryan. And Ryan never asks for anything, anyway. So it's really only Trey. And the one lousy thing that Trey wants is to play baseball.

It's not like he's even asking to play real Little League—the Babe Ruth League with the uniforms you get to keep, the decent ball fields and the occasional night games under the lights with Todd Morales and the rest of the good players from school. All he wants to do is to sign up for stupid CYO with the cruddy fields the churches borrow and the used uniforms you return at the end of every season. Heck, he doesn't even want to play in the Babe Ruth League. He wouldn't play in the Bambino League if it was even an option. Not that it is. He wants to play for Fr. Kevin. He wants to play for the only coach in the CYO league who was actually a professional player. Even if he's the only coach in the CYO league who is actually a priest.

Fr. Kevin is an amazing coach and it's awesome to play for him. Part of the fun comes from learning from a real pro and not just some random player's father who's learned everything he knows from the softball beer league on Saturdays. Part of the fun comes from watching the expressions on the faces of opposing players as they go from undisguised scorn and pity for the losers with the priest for a coach, to absolute awe and envy when Fr. Kevin starts to warm up his team. Because, when Fr. Kevin steps onto the field and starts running BP, starts hitting long flies to the outfield, starts a game of pepper, all the other kids just stop what they're doing and watch. Every time. It never gets old. They stop and stare, because it's patently obvious in no time at all that the priest in the black shirt, the clerical collar, the shorts and the Tevas—the priest from the run-down crappy parish with the torn up fields and the gaping hole in the right field fence—the priest who is Trey's coach—the priest who was Trey's coach—has game.

Trey'd even gone so far as offer to give up his birthday and Christmas presents just to be able to play ball this season. A suggestion that hadn't gone over particularly well, since it earned him his last appointment with his father and the belt. But, at least he'd obtained something valuable from his suggestion. At least there's no longer any doubt that he's going to have a crap birthday next week. So he won't be the least bit surprised—he won't be the least bit disappointed—he won't even react—when he gets absolutely nothing. He expects nothing.

Trey's glad he didn't have to encounter Fr. Kevin tonight and put on a big act. Mostly, because Trey's sick and tired of pretending. He's sick and tired of pretending that everything's okay. Because, he's been doing that all day. Or, at least he's been doing it since he came home to his mother waving around the stupid pack of cigarettes and Ryan's surprise confession. He'd had to pretend to Ryan and to his mom that everything was fine. That he didn't have a care in the world, since Ryan's the one who confessed and Trey's the one who's getting off scott-free. It was a lot harder fooling Ryan than it was fooling his mom. Because Ryan is always able to read Trey so well. Better than anyone. So, the only way Trey could pull it off was to avoid being alone with his little brother. Avoid eye contact. A plan that momentarily backfired when he managed to be so consistently and annoyingly underfoot that his mom finally demanded that the boys go into their own room to play. Though when they did, he made sure the bedroom door stayed open, knowing that Ryan wouldn't risk asking him what was going on with their mother within earshot.

It worked, too. Because he pulled out the baseball cards, climbed onto the bed and started reading the stats on the back, and when Ryan climbed on the bed to join his brother, Trey quizzed him on them. Quizzed himself, too, his eyes never leaving the back of the cards. Because, if he was looking at the back of the cards… if he was reading from the back of the cards… well, then he couldn't see the disappointment—the confusion—the accusation—the questions—in his brother's eyes. And Ryan couldn't see what was going on in him. Because if Ryan could see what Trey was planning, he'd mess everything all up. It was better to have Ryan think that he was abandoning him. It was better to have him think he was going to let him take the blame than have him mess everything up. And Ryan would most definitely mess everything up.

_"…19-Bob Feller; 20-Frank Robinson; 21-Roberto Clemente; 22-Jim Palmer; 23-Ryne Sandberg; 24-Willie Mays; 25-Barry Bonds."_

Trey's corresponding the most famous baseball players with the jerseys they wear…or wore. Ryne Sandberg's a stretch, but he can't think of another number 23. He's cheating with Willie Mays and Barry Bonds. He used them before, but Willie Mays has to be the best 24 and Barry Bonds is convenient. He's a good player and he's a Giant. But, even as he gets through number 25, there's still no sign of his father. Again, he thinks briefly about running out to the Oak. Because there's a chance, however slim, that his father is there. But, he doesn't entertain the thought too seriously. Not really. Because, there's really no way his dad stopped off. His dad's all kinds of pissed off and eager to kick Trey's ass. And Trey doesn't believe for one minute that bull his mom handed them earlier about how Ryan would get the belt if he didn't come clean. That his dad would be gunning for Ryan just because the smokes were found in his drawer. That's not how it works. Not when everyone knows that Ryan didn't take the cigarettes. Not when everyone knows that Trey took the smokes.

Except he didn't.

Except it was Ryan who took the stupid cigarettes. Ryan took the cigarettes and Trey didn't have a clue. Not even when his dad was in his face last night, holding him by the hair on the back of his head, shoving the carton under his nose and demanding to know where the missing pack was. Not even then. Because Trey didn't even think there really was a pack missing. He thought his dad was drunk and mistaken. Or, he thought his mom had taken them, but didn't want to tell his dad when he was already so loaded, so angry, so mean.

Trey didn't even know that Ryan took the smokes until this afternoon when his mother was holding them up, waving them around, staring at Trey and demanding that he come clean. He's still a little pissed off at Ryan, since he would have liked some warning. He hated the feeling of being ambushed when he came home to the sight of his mother and the pack of smokes. He hated being thrown off balance like that. He hated being at such a complete and utter lack of words. And—and, seriously—what a dumb-ass. What a spectacularly stupid thing to do. Who takes an entire pack of smokes? Trey's been pilfering cigarettes from his parents for years now—since he was Ryan's age—but he'd never been caught. He's always taken one here, another there. Always a couple days, a couple weeks in between. Never more than one at a time. Never a whole pack.

Trey may have even have considered letting his little brother face their father tonight. He may have considered not shouldering the blame. Except he owed Ryan one. He owed Ryan a couple. He owed Ryan more than a couple. For the other night when he'd eaten dinner with the Lawrence twins and he hadn't come home until after Home Improvement ended and for the countless times Ryan got into trouble simply because he went along with Trey and one of his stupid plans. Ryan's been on the receiving end of his father's belt—his father's fist—enough times because of him. So, tonight, Trey will take one for his brother. That is, if their father gets home. If their father beats Ryan and their mother home.

If their father gets home first, Trey will meet him at the door and he will offer his false confession. He will tell his father that he did what everyone already thinks they know. He stole the smokes and he put them in his little brother's drawer. He will take the punishment and, by the time Ryan gets home, it will be too late. His mother will think that Trey finally did what he should have done hours ago. And Ryan won't say anything. Ryan won't say anything because there's really no sense in both of them getting beaten—and because if Ryan says something, it would negate what Trey did. It would make what Trey did all for naught. And Ryan wouldn't do that.

Trey throws himself back on the bed, stares at the ceiling, and glides twin prayers heavenward. He prays that his dad gets home before he counts to 25—and he prays that his mother and his brother get delayed at the church.

"1—Billy Martin; 2—2's not retired; 3—Babe Ruth; 4—Lou Gehrig; 5—Joe DiMaggio; 7-Mickey Mantle..."

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Author's note: There's still a little fight life left in Trey, yet, TeacherTam. I think this is why the Ryan chapter was so hard to write. I'm lousy at keeping secrets…and apparently at keeping reviews. Urgh!

Feedback from all is always appreciated.


	6. Chapter Six

Usual disclaimers apply. I own nothing. Schwartz & Co. still own everything.

Author's note: Thank you, whomever nominated this little diversion for a "Citrus Award."

**Shelbecat**, thanks for the link. I didn't know how much good stuff is out there and I can't wait to read it all.

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Trey's sitting, fingers entwined, hands resting on the top of the kitchen table. His ankles are wrapped around outside of the metal legs of the chair, the toes of his sneakers resting on the inside of the rubber stoppers that cap the end of each chair's leg. His head is bowed and he's staring down at his thumbs. John is standing on the opposite side of the table, facing his son, leaning towards him as he holds onto the table with both hands, palms down, wrists outward. He's resting most of his upper body's weight on his arms. His biceps are taut and thick blue cords of vein stand out in stark relief against the paleness of his skin. A vein protrudes from in his left temple as well—its background decidedly red.

"…seriously! What the fuck were you thinking? —or do you even think anymore before you pull this shit?"

"I'm sorry, Dad." Trey mumbles, not looking up from his hands.

"Sorry doesn't cut it anymore. You're always sorry."

"I won't do it again."

"Damn straight you won't—of course you won't. You'll do something worse. You'll burn down the house or steal a car. Goddamn it, Trey! Can't you go one week—one fucking week without getting into trouble?"

Ryan rushes into the kitchen. He's obviously flustered, his cheeks reddened from the warmth of the house after the coolness of the night outside and from the exertion of carrying the provisions from the bus stop to the house at a dead run. He'd raced to the house after spotting his father's pickup in the drive from the bus window. He'd ignored his mother's pleas to slow down. To wait. He'd sprinted home and dumped everything by the front door as he hastened toward the sound of his father's voice—angry and raised. He notes with relief that he's not too late. His father's coming down hard on Trey, but his belt is still securely fastened around his waist. He hasn't hit Trey yet.

John turns his head in response to the slamming of the front door, the hastily dropped effects, the rapid light footsteps. He looks over his left shoulder without straightening and sees his younger son standing in the kitchen doorway—he dismisses him automatically.

"Go to your room, Ryan."

Trey looks directly at Ryan for the first time all evening. As their eyes lock, he shakes his head almost imperceptibly and mouths the word "_don't_."

It takes a few seconds and a lot of effort for Ryan to break his brother's gaze and meet his father's eye. "No, Dad. He…"

"Shut up." Trey tries to cut him off, mid-sentence.

"He didn't take them—the cigarettes—Trey didn't—"

"I already told him what happened, Ry. It's too late."

Ryan looks back to his brother. "I don't care. It's not too late. You can take it back—just—just take it back." Ryan's voice quivers a little in the delivery and the muscles in his cheek visibly bunch as he clenches his molars tight. He releases his jaw and balls up his fists with a new found determination.

"You don't have to do this, Trey." His tone is conspiratorial—it's as if the two boys are alone in the room.

John observes the interchange between the boys with curiosity—and more than a little annoyance. It had been going so easily. Too easily. Trey had met him before he'd gotten three feet into the house. He'd offered a full confession before John had time to take off his coat. He'd been openly repentant, quick to apologize and passive in listening to his father's lecture.

Of course, all of that probably should have tipped John off to the possibility that something wasn't quite right. Trey was rarely, if ever, submissive. It's what made it always such a royal pain in the ass to discipline him. He always has something to say. Some lame-assed excuse—some feeble justification—but, not tonight. Tonight he had been overly compliant. It was almost like he was rushing through it. Like he was impatient to reach the end-game. Something's going on and it's clear to John that he doesn't have the full story.

Dawn arrives, a full minute behind her younger son. She's also flustered. She's still carrying the box of food, which she dumps, unceremoniously, on the counter before starting to put away its contents. She purposefully ignores the scene before her. The manifest aggression displayed in her husband's carriage—the way her older son looks contrite, his head still lowered, even as he continues to shoot a pointed look at his brother—her younger son's internal struggle, the conflicting emotions dancing across his face, equal parts determination and trepidation.

"Why'd you run off like that, Ryan?" Her voice is plaintive. High-pitched. Nervous. Whiny. When Ryan doesn't answer, she pretends not to notice. She concentrates on the task at hand—removing the dry goods from the box and putting them into the cabinets—all the while sneaking brief glances at her family. "Make sure you pick up the stuff you dumped in the living room." She gestures towards the other room. Just to be doing something—just to be saying something. "You can't just leave everything in a heap like that." Her voice seems amplified, shrill even, in the quiet room. She recognizes the stillness and the tension between the kitchen's other occupants for the powder-keg that it is.

"Is somebody going to tell me what the fuck is going on?" John lofts the question upwards—a free-for-all. Trey's the first to react. The first to answer.

"I already told you, Dad—I took them."

"No he didn't. I did."

"Shut up, Ryan!" Trey's voice is tinged with just a hint of desperation. "Just drop it—okay? Nobody thinks you took the fucking cigarettes."

John lifts his right hand from the table long enough to backhand Trey sharply across the mouth. Trey wasn't expecting it, but as he lurches backwards from the blow, he's able to grab onto the table. He catches himself before his chair topples, plants his feet firmly on the kitchen's linoleum, his hands still gripping the sides of the table.

"Watch your fucking language."

"Sorry." Trey's response is automatic. He meets his father's eye for the briefest of instances, before dipping his head again, hunching forward, splaying his hands on top of the table, pretending to study them—then looking back to Ryan out of the corner of his eye.

John's losing patience. He pushes back from the table, straightens and turns to face his younger son. He takes a step toward the little boy, who noticeably flinches, ducks his head, avoids eye contact and crosses his arms protectively across his chest.

"You took the cigarettes?"

"Yes, sir." And though the statement is aimed at the floor—though it's barely audible—it's still somehow firm.

"What were you going to do with them?"

"I—I dunno." The boy lifts a shoulder. He leaves it there pathetically.

John swipes at his eyes and then rubs his palm along his nose, his mouth, down across his chin. He's clearly irritated with Ryan's interruption and his half-hearted response. He doesn't believe him for a second. "Go to your room. This doesn't concern you." He turns back towards the table and to his older son. This one's not meeting his eye, either. This one's still shooting daggers at the other.

"Let's go, Trey." John fumbles at his buckle as Trey stands. He has his belt halfway out as he puts a heavy hand on Trey's shoulder and starts pushing him out of the kitchen. When Ryan doesn't move from the doorway, he puts his hand on his younger son's chest and shoves him aside. He pulls the rest of his belt free as he propels Trey through the doorway and into the other room. Ryan stumbles backward, takes a second to regain his balance, and quickly follows.

"Don't hit him. He didn't do it."

"Ryan—so help me—if you don't go to your fucking room right now . . ."

"Ask him where they were." Ryan's voice has now assumed the breathless quality it so often does when agitated. When he's nervous, angry, or both. It's winded. It sounds as if he's putting forth a tremendous physical effort just to speak—as if the very words he's utters are fighting to stay within him—struggling to remain unsaid.

"What're you talking about?"

"Ask him where you found them—the cigarettes—just ask him."

As Trey turns to Ryan, he tries to wrest away from his father's grasp. John releases Trey's shoulder, grabs his upper arm, exerts more pressure, doesn't let go.

"They were in your drawer, Ryan—I rolled them up in a t-shirt and I stashed them in your drawer—are you happy now?" Trey's scared. Ryan came home too soon and now he's ruining everything. He's messing everything up. Just like he knew he would.

"Can we just get this over with?" He tries to sound hopeful and resigned. He supposes he succeeds, since his father pulls at his arm and they continue their course. Dawn has finished putting away the food from the church. She exits the kitchen, approaches Ryan from behind, crosses her arms in front of her son's chest and pulls his tense little body to her—she squeezes him tight.

"Honey, let it be." She whispers.

But Ryan's determined. He reaches up, pulls his mother's arms from him, twists out of her grasp and takes another step in his brother's direction.

"Which shirt?"

He knows he's got about three seconds—he's got about three paces—before his dad and brother disappear into the other room. He knows that if he can't stop them before his parents' door is closed, he will have lost.

"Ask him which shirt." This gets his father's attention, because he stops, turns, faces his younger son.

"What?"

"Ask him which shirt, Dad. He doesn't even know."

"I already said I took them, Ryan, why the fuck does it matter?!"

"I do—I know—Trey doesn't."

"Ryan, stop it. Just shut the fuck up!"

John lets go of Trey long enough to backhand him again. "I said to watch your mouth."

"Sorry."

"Go on, ask him, Dad." Ryan is unrelenting. John looks down at Trey and cocks his head. Curiosity has the better of him now. He needs Trey's answer. So, he waits. His son looks momentarily confused, but then recovers enough to look pissed off.

"A white one. A black one. How the hell do I know? I wasn't paying attention to the stupid shirt."

Ryan's eyes are lasers—they're locked in on his brother's, boring into him as he speaks. "I put the cigarettes in the pocket of my blue shirt—rolled the shirt around them—shoved it in the back left corner of the drawer and—and I put a bunch of other clothes on top. Dad found them there because that's where I put them. You don't know, Trey—you don't know because you didn't do it."

"Ryan." Trey tries again, but his plea sounds feeble. Even he realizes that it's too late.

"I can take care of myself." Again, it's like Ryan and Trey are the room's only inhabitants. Ryan is speaking to Trey and to Trey alone. And—and Trey sees it. He sees that there's something in Ryan's eyes. There's something behind the overt fear and anxiety that are so readily transparent. There's a resolve there—under the surface—that he hasn't seen before. He instantly knows that Ryan has to do this and he knows that he has to let him.

Ryan sees the comprehension wash over his brother. He sees it in his brother's expression, in the way Trey's body seems to relax—his very demeanor admitting defeat. And once Ryan knows that his brother understands, that his brother will let him do this, he breaks contact. He turns away and looks up at his father. He's admittedly apprehensive—admittedly afraid. But, he knows what he has to do. He's chosen this for himself. He chose it back when he took the stupid smokes. Because if he was stupid enough to take the cigarettes—if he was stupid enough to get busted—well, then he's old enough to take what he's got coming to him.

John hands Ryan the belt. Tells him to wait in the bedroom. Ryan's hands shake as he takes possession of the instrument that will inflict the damage. He can't help but register its substantial heft and has a hard time swallowing around the sizable knot that's taken up residence in his throat. But, even as his fear escalates, he looks pointedly at his brother. He gives his head a slight nod. He reassures Trey that this is what he wants—this is what he needs to do. Ryan turns and walks determinedly into his parents' room.

John regards the interaction between his children. Several emotions are going through him at once. Anger—surprise—disappointment—even a little pride. He addresses Trey. "I'm letting you off this time, but lie to me again and see where that gets you."

"Yes, sir." The response is mumbled. All bravado is gone. Trey's visibly spent. He's wiped out—there's no fight left in him.

"Get out of here and don't let me see you again till morning."

"Yes, sir."

Trey shuffles off to the bedroom he shares with his brother. He shuts the door, puts his back to the wall between his room and his parents' room and lets himself slide to a sitting position on the floor. He's exhausted. He doesn't want to hear what transpires in the room next door. But he has to know what's going on. He has to know if he needs to intercede. So he hugs his legs close to himself. He locks his left wrist with the palm and fingers of his right hand. He puts forehead on his knees. He closes his eyes. He listens. And he waits.


	7. Chapter Seven

Okay, okay, so I had to hurt him…but at least I didn't make you watch.

I still own nothing.

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Trey lifts his head and wearily opens his eyes when the door cracks open just wide enough to admit his little brother. He's still sitting, hunched up on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. Ryan's initially no more than a shadow, his small form backlit by the brightness of the room beyond—not even completely in focus as Trey's eyes struggle to adjust after being closed for such an extended period of time. The lamp on the bedside table still emits the room's only light. But, even in its soft glow, the sheen on Ryan's face is clearly visible. Even if he didn't already know, Trey would instantly see in the semi-darkness that Ryan's face is wet—that he's been crying. And if he wasn't already acutely aware, Ryan's eyes—red and swollen—would tell Trey that he's been at it for a while.

"You okay?"

Ryan looks to where his brother's sitting on the floor. He doesn't have to ask to know why Trey's chosen that particular spot, with his back propped up against the wall of their parents' bedroom. He knows that Trey can hear everything from where he sits and he appreciates that Trey hasn't moved—that Trey let him handle the encounter with their father—even though it must have been hard for him not to intervene. Even though it must have taken every last ounce of self-restraint for him to fight his natural instinct to rush in and protect his brother. Ryan recognizes that it must have been pure agony for Trey to remain passive in the midst of the muted sounds of leather striking flesh—when his grunts of discomfort escalated into cries of pain—or as they ended in pitiful whimpers. Ryan's been on this side of the wall far too many times to _not_ know what Trey heard—or the emotions that coursed through him while doing so.

Ryan nods his head slightly in response because he doesn't trust his voice, he doesn't trust himself, and because the tears are still coming. He crosses the floor and climbs onto the bed that the brothers share. He lies on his stomach to avoid putting pressure on his buttocks and the backs of his legs, both of which sting mightily from the sharp bite of his father's belt. He wants to be brave. He tries to be brave. He wills himself to be brave. To stop crying. Stop the tears. But he can't—so he lowers his head into the crook of his arm and he sobs.

Trey watches his brother from his position on the floor. He waits for a full minute—gives his brother some space—some time. When his internal count reaches 60, he slowly rises. And even that takes considerable effort. Because he's been sitting still for so long—and because the burden of the evening continues to exert its tremendous pressure on him. A pressure so overwhelming, so real, so profound, that Trey's certain that at this very instant he weighs far more than the 80-some pounds he knows that he is. He wants to go to his brother—to comfort him. But he doesn't want to be condescending. He doesn't want to baby him. Not after the courage it took for Ryan to stand up to their father tonight. Not after the courage it took for him to stand up to Trey.

He slowly crosses the room to the dresser the boys share. He opens the top drawer, reaches in and pulls out an undershirt. He goes to the bed, sits down and puts a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder. He leaves it there and waits patiently until Ryan finally looks up and takes in a long, shuddering, breath. The tears have stopped, but his face is still red, blotchy, snotty. Ryan drags the side of his index finger and hand across his nose almost angrily as he props himself up on his elbows.

Trey hands him the clean shirt. "Here. Use this—blow your nose, even—I don't care."

"Thanks." Ryan mumbles. He sits up, swings his feet over the side of the bed. Remains seated, even when the pressure of his body's weight amplifies the ache coming from his newly garnered wounds. He takes the shirt from his brother and roughly wipes it across his face a couple of times.

As Ryan swings his feet from the bed, Trey's eyes are drawn to them. He notes the unfamiliar sneakers. The Adidas with the conspicuously penned blue middle stripe.

"Nice kicks." He comments.

"They're Tommy Browning's. Mom made me—" Ryan's horrified when his voice catches, when the tears start anew. "_Crap_." He whispers to himself, burying his head deep into Trey's shirt—willing himself to stop crying—frustrated when he can't. He's so busy with his internal struggle that doesn't even feel the release of pressure on his shoulder as Trey removes his hand. He doesn't feel the bed dip and rise as Trey stands, or hear his brother go to the bedroom door. He has no idea what Trey intends to do and no chance to stop him, before Trey yanks the door open and yells into the other room.

"Dad, I gotta pee."

"Knock it!"

"Seriously! I'm going to piss my pants."

"You should have thought of that before you lied to me."

"I swear, I'll go straight to the bathroom and come straight back."

"I said 'no,' now shut that goddamned door—shut your goddamned mouth—and don't let me hear from you again tonight."

"C'mon, Dad. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't serious."

"So help me—"

"Honestly, Dad, my teeth are floating." Trey's pleas have taken on a desperate quality and John finally relents.

"Straight to the bathroom, straight back. If you take any more than two minutes I'm coming after you."

"Gotcha, thanks."

It's less than two minutes later that Ryan hears the sound of the toilet flushing, the sink running and Trey's returning footsteps. They stop momentarily as Trey mutters another "thank you," which his dad returns with another rebuke. The bedroom door opens and Trey enters. He's wearing a shit-eating grin that confirms that he's up to something. Not that Ryan didn't know he was up to something the minute he heard the odd request to use the bathroom.

Odd—because Ryan and Trey have both launched a stream out their bedroom window more times than he can count in an effort to avoid running into their father in the middle of the night when he was pissed off or drunk or both. Odd—because it makes absolutely no sense that Trey would ask his dad to use the bathroom and risk incurring his wrath, when all he had to do was turn off the light, open the window and stand on the ledge. But, at least Trey's little diversion has done one thing. It's taken Ryan's mind off the tears—off the pain. In the face of his confusion and his curiosity, he no longer harbors any urge to cry.

Trey's walks over, holds out his arm. His outstretched hand holds two round white pills. "Here, take these."

"What are they?"

"Motrin. It'll help."

"They'll get stuck in my throat without water."

"Here." Trey holds out the wet washcloth he's carrying in his other hand. "You can suck some off of this."

"Thanks." Ryan collects enough water in his mouth to wash down the pain killers and then does so.

"Now use that to clean yourself up. You don't want Mom to think you're still crying when she comes in here or we'll have to sit through even more of her sappy crap when she tucks you in."

Ryan thinks about it for a second before he answers. "I like it when she tucks me in."

"That's just 'cause you still believe her bullshit."

"What're you talking about?"

"That crap about how things are going to get better—about how she's going to make sure everything's okay—she's going to keep us safe. It's all bullshit. Make-believe—right up there with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny."

"She _is _trying." Ryan responds quietly.

"No she's not—and you're an idiot if you think that she is."

"She told him to stop." Ryan's not an idiot, so he knows his brother's wrong. He's certain of this, because his mother had stood in the doorway of the bedroom and yelled at his father to put down the belt—demanded that John stop hitting the boy after Ryan lost count of the number of blows. And John had stopped. He'd flung the belt aside in undisguised disappointment and disgust in the way the little boy could not contain his emotions—or his tears. He'd dismissed him with a derisive, "_You'd better get your shit together before your dick falls off, you little pansy._"

"Yeah? So what? She always tells him to stop. Has it made any difference—like ever?" Ryan thinks about it for a few seconds. Shakes his head—still not understanding what Trey has decided is so important for him to see. Trey's decided that after tonight—and after getting the crap kicked out of him trying to break his parents apart a few weeks ago—Ryan needs to know some certain, basic truths about their mother. Because if Ryan's old enough to get his ass handed to him on her account—well then he's old enough to put his current image of his mother on ice.

"She's scared of him."

"No shit. We're all scared of him. It doesn't mean she couldn't have stopped him from hitting you tonight if she wanted to. She didn't want to, Ryan—or maybe she just didn't want to bad enough."

"No." Ryan's still shaking his head. "You can't stop Dad when he's all pissed off like that."

"Sure you can. I do—I was going to—until you told me not to."

"You know what I mean. He was still going to hit someone—you if not me."

"So?"

"So—she didn't want to get hit."

"I didn't _want_ to get hit, either." This is delivered so softly that Ryan almost misses it.

"She couldn't get between Dad and me. You wouldn't have let her—just like you weren't going to let me."

"And that's my point, exactly, Ryan. I always get between her and Dad—and she always _lets_ me. Hell, she _expects_ me to." Trey spits out the words with such rancor that it leaves an acrid taste in Ryan's mouth. Ryan is unexpectedly uncomfortable—uncharacteristically timid in his brother's presence. He's overwhelmed with the sense that Trey harbors the same bitterness towards him as he so evidently holds for their mother.

As Trey's silence lengthens, Ryan even mistakes his brother's pause as a tacit acknowledgment. He realizes with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that Trey's right—and what makes him so nauseous is the accompanying realization that he's just as guilty as their mother in this respect. He relies on his brother to protect him, also.

"You always get between Dad and me, too." Ryan's voice is barely audible. "You think I'm just like her—I'm just like Mom." He finally whispers, his eyes suddenly wet again, secure in the absolute knowledge that his brother resents him deeply.

"Oh, God, no! Ryan!" Trey's quick to reassure his brother. But Ryan doesn't even hear him over the impossibly loud sound of his own heart thumping in his ears.

"I expect it, too, Trey. I always know that you'll be there for me. You always are."

"Jesus, Ryan! No! There's a difference—a huge difference. You're eight—you're my little brother—and you've never, ever—not even once—let me take your place without putting up a fight. You're nothing like Mom. You're the exact opposite of Mom." Relief washes over Ryan in successive waves with the comprehension that his relationship with his brother remains intact.

"All I'm trying to say is that you shouldn't let her off the hook when she comes in here later to tuck you in, just because she says all the right words." Trey continues. "Just because Mom says all that crap doesn't make it true. It's just something she does to make herself feel better. To let herself off the hook. _We_ look after her, Ryan. It's not the other way around. Don't you forget it."

And as he finally gets what Trey's telling him—as he recognizes it for the undeniable truth that it is—it occurs to Ryan that he should feel a lot crappier than he does right now. But he doesn't. The relief he's still experiencing from the reassurance that Trey and he stand on solid ground far exceeds the disbelief, the disappointment, the fear he should be experiencing in the wake of being forced to open his eyes to his mother's weakness—to her indifference. So he comes to the inevitable conclusion that somewhere deep inside, a part of him must have already known—maybe always known.

"Before I forget." Trey reaches behind him, lifts the back of shirt and pulls a bottle from the waistband of his jeans. He leans down, raises his pant leg and takes a smaller bottle from where it had been secreted next to his calf, held in by the elastic of his athletic sock. Ryan watches incredulously.

"How could you forget?"

"Oh, and the best part—" Trey reaches into his front pocket and pulls out two cigarettes and a pack of matches. He waggles them in front of his brother's nose enticingly before jumping onto the desk, opening the window and climbing onto the sill.

"C'mon, Ryan, we've got another hour before Mom comes in here."

"You're crazy."

"I know."

After Trey disappears out the window, Ryan waits a full half-minute—the time it takes his newly heightened sense of brotherly fidelity to beat the crap out of his innate desire for self-preservation—before he gets up—and gingerly follows.


	8. Chapter Eight

Thanks for all the great reviews! Seriously, every time I hit the button to submit a new chapter, I'm overwhelmed by positively _Cohenian_ anxiety.

Oh, and a mention in a headnote to **Xerus's **awesome, **_entirely_** angst-free Notacareintheworldlifeisallmarshmallowcloudsintheshapeoffluffybunniesandgrapelollipopssincethey'resototallythebestflavor!Ryan! fic. Wow, life just can't get any better.

Still own nothing.

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Dawn's lying on the couch, her legs tucked behind as she leans back against her husband. He's got his left hand draped loosely across her chest and his right hand gently strokes her hair when it's not manipulating the cigarette to and from his lips. There are matching glass tumblers filled with bourbon and ice on the coffee table in front of them and as Dawn stretches and reaches for her glass, she notes that the table has seen better days. It had been a gift from John's Aunt Kate when they married 12 years before and it's definitely showing its age. The unfinished soft pine surface bears the dents, the scars and the other mementos of a long and difficult life lived amongst the chaos that defines the Atwood home.

There's the chip on the far corner—that's where Ryan knocked out his tooth when he tripped over his brother's baseball mitt a few years before. They were lucky that it was a baby tooth—no permanent damage done. But, John must have told Trey to pick up that damn glove half a dozen times before Ryan fell—so, Ryan wasn't the only one with a bloody mouth by the time that night ended.

There are the three deep scratches that are a souvenir from her brother's long-dead Rottweiler. She hated that fucking dog. The tracks he had left on the top of her table had been a lot lighter, originally—until an errant tennis ball the boys were throwing between them knocked over their father's coffee cup, splashing the table—and him—with the scalding black liquid it contained.

And, there—front and center—is the "JRA" that Trey had carved into the wood with a table knife in inch-high letters out of sheer boredom on a rainy summer afternoon. She's surprised he didn't add the "III" that provided his nickname. But, he may have just not been finished yet when he was caught still dragging the knife through the "A" and roughly hauled off to his parents' bedroom and a beating with his dad's belt. She remembers how loud the knife sounded as it clanged to the floor when John twisted Trey's hand around to the middle of his back. How scared Dawn was that the fragile little wrist would snap.

She sighs and lifts the drink to her lips. Listens to the soft melodic clink of ice against glass as she takes a small sip—holds it for a second in her mouth—then lets the soothing liquid slowly slide down her throat, warming her entire body from within. She'll go to him later. To Ryan. At bedtime. She'll tuck him in, kiss his tears away and let him know that she loves him.

"She look upset to you?" Trey whispers angrily to his brother from where they're standing, at the edge of the lawn, peering around the side of the house and into the living room. Where their parents are drinking, smoking and watching "Roseanne"—their bodies entwined, their father's hand tenderly brushing their mother's hair.

"I get it." Ryan whispers back. And he does—he did—even before Trey decided to show him this. Trey's the first to break away from the cozy domestic charade playing out before their eyes. He walks off minutes before Ryan is able to do the same.

Trey waits for his little brother behind the shed. It's no question that Ryan will know exactly where to find him. It's where they always go when they want to escape the house—or its other occupants. It's where the boys have played endless rounds of "spit" and "gin" and countless other card games, while waiting for the powder keg inside to diffuse. It's where Trey giddily narrated the minute details of every last match of his unprecedented run as the six week reigning "king" at four-square. It's where he taught Ryan how to punch correctly—to lock his wrist and lead with the knuckles of the index and middle finger—after Ryan kept getting his ass kicked on the playground and Trey got tired of beating up the smaller kids. It's where the brothers shared their first stolen beer. Their first stolen cigarette.

There's a little over a foot between the shed and the chain-link fence surrounding their neighbor's backyard. It's just narrow enough that John hasn't thought to look for them there in his sometimes search for the boys. Yet, it's big enough for both of their small forms to fit, easily—comfortably. Trey hears the clang of metal against metal as the chain that attaches their neighbor's pit bull to the stake in the yard rattles against her collar. She comes out of her doghouse as Trey settles, his back against the shed and waits for his brother. He waves and offers a whispered, "Hey, Peaches, it's just me."

Peaches doesn't bark. She's used to being in this boy's presence. She walks towards him as far as the tether will allow, then turns three tight circles and lies down, her brown, doleful eyes remaining on the boy as she runs a slobbery tongue across her nose and her chops and starts biting at the hot spot on her right front leg.

Trey hears his brother's soft footsteps coming across the lawn before he sees him. Ryan's so slight, he doesn't even have to turn sideways to come through the opening. The lighting out here is similar to what it had been in their bedroom, as their neighbor's spotlight is shining on the yard, illuminating the dead yellow patch of grass that surrounds Peaches' doghouse and defines the circumference of her tether.

"You really took _cigarettes_?" Ryan asks, because he's still amazed at his brother's audacity in light of the evening's events—and because he doesn't want to talk further about the scene they'd both just witnessed.

"They're Mom's. She left them in the bathroom. She won't even have a clue." Ryan's still shaking his head, but takes the cigarette Trey offers. He remains standing, not wanting to sit on the hard concrete that surrounds the shed. Leans a shoulder against the shed's back wall. Waits for his brother to offer him a light—and shakes his head when he does.

"I wanna light it." Trey shrugs, flicks the lit match away from him—where it extinguishes itself in a little wisp of smoke—and hands Ryan the matchbook. Ryan goes through three matches before he can sustain a flame long enough behind his cupped hand to light his cigarette. He barely coughs when he inhales. So different from the first time, when he'd been overly confident, taken way too much into his lungs, coughed, choked and almost threw up. He was getting better at this.

The boys smoke in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Trey asks the million dollar question—the one Ryan's been waiting to hear from his brother all evening. The one Ryan has no idea how to answer.

"What were you going to do with them, anyway?"

"What—the cigarettes?"

"No, the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, you dumbass."

"I dunno."

"Bull! I do things 'cause of 'I dunno'—you don't."

Ryan shifts uncomfortably. Looks at his brother out of the corner of his eye. "They were for you."

"For me?"

"Yeah—like for your birthday."

"You stole cigarettes—stole cigarettes _from Dad—_to give me for my birthday? Great plan, Einstein." Trey expertly flicks the ash off the end of the cigarette and takes another big drag.

Ryan waits a few seconds before trying to explain. "I didn't exactly steal them—I uh—I kind of paid for them."

"Keep talking." Trey urges when Ryan doesn't offer more.

Ryan shrugs—takes a small pull at his cigarette—removes it from his lips—lets his hand drop—watches as the red tip turns to gray. "Dad took my money."

"What money?"

"Just some money. I had saved it—for your birthday—I was trying to—I was going to get enough for you to play baseball this year."

"Where'd _you_ get money?"

"I dunno—I mean—I haven't spent Grandma's Christmas money, yet—or I hadn't—well, not before Dad took it."

"Hate to tell ya', but that's not gonna pay for a season of baseball, Ry."

"I know that—I was going to try to work something out—with Fr. Kevin—you know?"

"Like what?"

"Like what Mom does with the electric company."

"You mean a payment plan?"

"Yeah—like that."

Trey laughs at the absurdity of it all. "So—what? You were going to put $10 down and pay it off over the next four years?"

Ryan's still looking at Trey out of the corner of his eye. He inhales a little more smoke and mimics how his brother flicked the ash. He lets his brother laugh for a few seconds before quietly offering, "I had 30."

"Thirty _dollars_?"

"No, 30 chickens, dumbass."

"How'd you get $30? Grandma only sent ten."

Ryan hesitates again, but he can't figure out how not to tell. "I—I sold my skateboard."

"For $20? Who's the sucker?"

"Ten. Spud Walker bought it."

"And the other ten?"

Ryan shifts, leans more heavily on his shoulder and swings his eyes from his brother to Peaches. She growls softly when their eyes make contact—and when the little boy doesn't defer. But she's not entirely serious. She's used to this one, too—so she doesn't even raise her head, much less her hackles.

"Spill, Ryan."

"Promise you won't get mad."

"No."

"C'mon, Trey—please?"

"No way—I'm not gonna promise anything. What'd you do?"

Trey wouldn't have thought it possible for Ryan to speak any softer and to still be audible. But his voice drops just a fraction lower as he confesses, "I sold my baseball mitt to Billy Brewer."

"Jesus, Ryan!" Trey's response is more a bark than a whisper. It comes out louder than he expected and for one millisecond, he's afraid it was too loud—until he remembers that the TV is on and the program's laugh-track is loud.

Ryan turns his eyes back to his brother. He pulls himself to an upright position—faces his brother. "Don't get mad, Trey. I don't hardly ever use it—baseball's your thing—I won't even miss it."

Trey puffs his cheeks out, clearly annoyed that his brother's been selling off his stuff and for the first time, it briefly occurs to him that he may have been complaining just a little too much in the last few weeks about not being able to play.

"Where were you going to get the rest? Even with a payment plan you need some way to make money. You're like—eight." He wants to see exactly how thoroughly his brother's thought this thing through. Exactly what lengths his little brother would go to so that he could play a season of ball.

Ryan shrugs—he leans his shoulder back against the shed—resumes looking at Trey out of the corner of his eye—and takes another short drag on the cigarette before answering. "Billy says he makes up to $10 on a funeral—and even more at weddings—especially when the really ugly people get married."

"You were going to be an _alter boy_?"

"I dunno—I was going to ask Fr. Kevin."

"So, instead, you stole a pack of Dad's smokes."

"I didn't steal 'em—I paid $30 for the stupid things."

"Well, now what? You still going to be an alter boy?"

"I dunno—maybe—getting money would be nice—but not if Dad's just gonna to take it all." He looks over at Peaches when she softly harrumphs. Watches as she stands, turns a few more circles and settles down again—resumes chewing on the now red and bloody sore on her leg. He briefly considers telling Trey about Fr. Kevin's offer to waive the fee, but decides against it. Their mother will want to tell him and Ryan doesn't want to ruin the surprise. Despite his mixed emotions for his mother right now, it's her news to share—and he knows how much his mother wants to make Trey smile. Because she hasn't—not in a very long time.

Ryan drops what's left of his cigarette, grinds it out with the toe of Tommy Browning's right sneaker. "I'm gonna head back in. What're those bottles for, anyway?"

"I'm right behind you. I'll let you know when I get there."

"Yeah, okay—um—don't be too long—okay, Trey."

"I won't."

As Ryan leaves, Trey takes a final drag on his cigarette. He puts it out by hand—crushing it into the concrete next to him. He stands up, goes over and picks up the remnants of Ryan's cigarette. He crosses over to where the concrete ends. He digs a small hole in the soft dirt and buries the evidence. He looks up and glances around to make sure that there are no witnesses.

There's only one—and Trey's pretty sure she's not talking. Trey's also pretty sure that there are pit bulls out there that are sweet and gentle and would never harm a hair on anyone's head—and he's absolutely, positively certain that this isn't one of them. Which is a shame, really, since she'd been such a rambunctious playful pup back when the Trents first brought her home. She was beautiful back then, too—with a gorgeous coat, brindled black and brown. Of course, that was three years ago—a lifetime ago. She was hardly recognizable anymore as the pup she'd once been. Her coat was flat, covered in grime and dander. Her body a mess of open sores. And as she grew, the spiked choker collar they'd bought for a pup had tightened around the dog's neck—it had become embedded in her skin. A short lifetime of being chained to a stake in the ground, of hot summer days with little or no water and of being on the receiving end of Mr. Trent's steel-tipped boots had changed her. It had changed her a lot—because Peaches is one mean and nasty little bitch and Trey doesn't have any doubt that she would happily tear his arm off and eat it for dinner if given the opportunity.

"See 'ya, Peaches." He waggles his fingers at the dog. She raises her head from the ground and offers a soft bark at the boy's departing form.


	9. Chapter Nine

Disclaimer: Hey, yeah, I still own nothing of consequence. Here's the next chapter.

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Before Trey completely emerges from the shadow of the shed, he momentarily stops and regards the house in front of him. His home. There's nothing particularly distinctive about it. Nothing unique in its peeling paint, the noticeable gaps on the roof where the black tar shows through in place of the numerous damaged and missing shingles that are only slightly lighter in shade, the sizeable gashes in the concrete of the foundation where entire chunks have crumbled away. The house looks strikingly similar to all of the other small ranch homes on the quiet street with their tiny plots of mottled grass and the chain link fencing that surrounds them—the requisite lone tree standing sentry in the front yard.

If there's any distinction in the Atwood home, it's only in how neatly the lawn is maintained in contrast to their neighbors on either side. The Pawliczeks—whose toddlers' playthings blanket nearly every available inch of their plot and the Mahoneys—with the once mobile monstrosity of a lawn ornament—that unsightly green Buick, whose rusted hull has rested on cinderblocks for a seeming eternity. The mishmash of car parts that have been randomly salvaged and collected by Mr. Mahoney over the years lying scattered around the car's empty carcass as if only recently spewed from its very bowels.

Picking up the yard is Ryan's chore. Trey's is to cut the lawn. Which he does, every Saturday, pushing the manual mower carefully across the half-dead grass. They have other chores, as well—the boys do. They alternate making their bed every day before leaving their room. Toys and books have to be carefully replaced after each use. The dishes are washed, dried, stacked and put away following every meal. It's Ryan's job to vacuum the house twice a week. It's up to Trey to clean the bathroom. The house is rarely untidy. John won't allow it. John demands that his home be in order and he holds his children to his exacting standards in maintaining its upkeep.

That the home is neat is near the top of the list of John's many rules of the house. It sits alongside his rigid expectation that the children always show the proper respect to adults—himself foremost, their mother next and to all adults in general thereafter. If it's second to anything, it's only to his staunch insistence that what goes on in the home stays in the home. In that vein, he impressed upon the children at a very early age that it's part of their daily responsibility to protect the sanctity of the family—to maintain the privacy of the family's concerns—to keep the family intact.

There are certain occasions when John and Dawn's voices—angry and raised through open windows—result in unwanted attention. There are times when the cops are called upon to forcefully intrude upon their home. There are times when the boys silently watch—all the while willing themselves invisible—as their father is subdued, handcuffed and led from the house to the accompaniment of the hysterical and ineffectual pleas that their mother invariably hurls at the officers. Dawn's frenzied appeals to let her husband stay—her improbable insistence that he didn't do anything—even as the fresh contusions visibly blossom on her face, on her arms, or around her neck.

There are even times when one or the other of the boys sports a newly erupted bruise or a wound fresh enough that the blood hasn't entirely coagulated when the cops arrive. Those are the times when the family anticipates that the lady from social services may pay a visit to their home. But, it's always days or even weeks before she shows up. If she shows up at all—and it's with increasing regularity that she doesn't.

Because the Atwood family's case worker knows what to expect from these boys. She knows what to expect from their parents. She knows that even if the bruises haven't entirely faded and even if she can somewhat substantiate the suspected abuse with photographs of actual injury, if she checks off the "indicated" box on the reporting form, it will just be a waste of her time. Because these boys won't talk, except for to deny anything other than roughhousing gone a bit too far, a fall off a skateboard or a bike, or a headlong slide into third—told with gusto and accompanied by a long-winded and detailed recap of a vividly imagined match that always ends in dramatic fashion with a game winning RBI or a game ending diving catch by the tale's very own narrator.

The social worker responsible for the Atwoods is also responsible for 38 other active cases. Other cases that are so much more in need of her time, in need of her attention, in need of the county's resources and in need of court-ordered intervention. For it's these cases she has a chance of proving. The cases that that involve the hollowed, dull-eyed children with distended bellies full of undigested starches—the babies toddling around in t-shirts and day-old diapers—the kids wandering around oblivious to an environment that is only a match light away from explosion, in homes that double as laboratories for the production of methamphetamine and other chemically manufactured drugs—the foul-mouthed, lice-infected little hellions sitting amongst scattering cockroaches and dishes with a week's worth of encrusted food. Those are all children she can help. Not the quiet, respectful and articulate little brothers who live in this tidy home.

Because the social worker responsible for the Atwood family knows that if the boys won't cooperate, if the parents won't cooperate, if there's no x-ray of a spiral fracture to point to or a witness who's willing to testify that he or she actually observed one of the little boys getting hit—well then there's not much she can do. Because there just isn't enough evidence to bring a successful deprivation case to court. And to try is just a waste of time and resources. So, she's taken to marking the "unfounded" box on the home report in response to the calls regarding these boys—and with increasing frequency, she's taken to marking it from the desk in her cubicle at the county office without ever having gone out to verify the claim. Because she doesn't have the time to run around chasing her own tail in pursuit of a hopeless case.

On his way back to his bedroom's open window, Trey makes a quick detour to reconnoiter his parents' whereabouts, to verify that his absence hasn't been noticed, that he won't be ambushed upon reentry. He notes with satisfaction that the parental units are still firmly planted in front of the television. His mother is now the couch's sole occupant and his father has moved to his more customary position on the barcalounger. Their drinks are full—undoubtedly their second round—or maybe even some higher count. Which isn't an entirely bad thing to Trey's way of thinking. Because the smell of bourbon and the smoke that will be on his mother's breath when she comes in to say goodnight will mask the smoke on Trey and Ryan's own breath. Their clandestine foray into the night and the smuggled cigarettes will undoubtedly remain their secret.

Trey notices that Ryan must have had trouble climbing back into the bedroom without a boost up, since the tire off the pickup that his dad hasn't yet gotten around to hauling away is resting just under the window. A tire that will either become a permanent fixture in the Atwood yard, as dumping it legally requires a fee—or, more likely, a tire that will be loaded onto the back of the pickup under the cover of night, which Trey will be instructed to surreptitiously throw over the side on some desolate stretch of highway miles away after his father has conspiratorially blinked his headlights in a signal that alerts the all clear.

Trey rolls the tire carefully back to its temporarily established position against the house several feet away before he heaves himself up and onto the window's ledge. As he hoists himself onto the sill, he glances inside and notes the obvious relief sweep over Ryan. He sees it in the way his brother's furrowed brows unknit, the way his brother's forehead smoothes and his eyes widen from the tiny slivers that were keeping watch on the open window. Ryan's sitting on the bed, his back propped against both pillows, shoes off and his legs extended. He's got some school papers scattered in front of him. He's holding his math book in his lap, but he's not looking at it. He's staring intently at the window and furiously chewing on the soft wood of the pencil that's in his mouth—adding to the collection of tooth marks that already pepper the once yellow, but increasingly brown-dappled surface.

"Relax, Ry, I told you I was right behind you." Trey reassures his brother, as he softly drops to the floor and closes the window behind him.

"I know—it's just—this day has been so—I can't help it—I keep thinking it's not over, yet—that something else's going to happen—it's stupid, I know." Ryan's lips offer a weak smile that his eyes don't quite sell.

"Speaking of the other shoe—" Trey awkwardly grasps at Ryan's unwittingly offered segue.

"Speaking of the what?" Ryan asks when his brother's thought remains unfinished.

"Shoe—I mean, shoes—your shoes—Tommy Browning's kicks—I need you to give 'em to me."

"Why?" Ryan stares glumly down at the sneakers he's so carefully parked at the side of the bed. But, he makes no effort to reach for them. He doesn't want to touch them. He hates them. Just a few hours earlier he would not have thought it possible to garner such a passionate loathing for inanimate objects such as these. But he does. He abhors Tommy Browning's shoes with a vehemence unequaled in his short life.

"C'mon, Ryan, just do it."

"Why? What're you gonna do?"

"Shut up already and bring 'em over here." Trey grumbles and sits at the desk, pulling the bottles he'd secreted from the bathroom towards him. "Bring that t-shirt, too. The one you blubbered all over."

"I didn't blubber." Ryan half-heartedly defends himself, even though he doesn't entirely mind the ribbing. Not after the night's events—the accusations, the confusion, the anger, the apologies, the tears, the pain, the guilt—all adding up to the oppressive solemnity that's depressed the Atwood house since the boys came home to their mother holding up the cigarettes. After all of it, after everything they've just been through, it actually feels pretty okay that Trey is attempting to infuse just the slightest bit of normalcy into their conversation.

"Yeah, right. Then how come it's still soaking?" Trey exaggerates, taking the shirt that's offered, making a big production of squeezing the non-existent moisture out and swatting his little brother across the head with it. He then picks up the smaller of the two bottles.

"Nail polish remover?" Ryan stands behind Trey. He reads the bottle over his brother's left shoulder and ignores the good-natured teasing.

"Yeah."

"What're you gonna do with it?"

"Quit talking and start watching." Trey says, as he twists the cap off the bottle, and dabs some of the liquid onto the shirt. He starts rubbing the dampened cloth across the penned-in middle stripe on the inside of Tommy Browning's left shoe. Ryan's amazed when the ink immediately begins to disappear.

He notices that the fissures in the leather—the tiny spider-webs of wear—remain slightly purplish in hue, but the stripe itself is decidedly white again—or not exactly white—but most definitely not the deep royal blue that it had been only seconds before. Ryan watches as Trey continues rubbing at the stripe, then switches from nail polish remover to the bigger bottle—rubbing alcohol. Trey finds a different part of the shirt, one that isn't already stained blue, dampens it with the new substance and continues wiping. A little more of the pen's ink is transferred from Tommy Browning shoe to the shirt. Trey then goes to work on the shoe's other middle stripe. When he's finally satisfied, he holds up his work for his brother's inspection.

"It's not perfect—the cracks are still a little blue—oh, and the threads where it's stitched—but, it's better than it was, huh?"

Ryan's eyes are as wide as saucers as he nods. He reaches for the shoe with a whispered, "_Thanks_." Looks it over. Turns the corners of his mouth down as he nods his approval. It is by no means perfect, but it's a heck of a lot better than it had been. Ryan's confident that he can now wear the shoes without the whole school knowing at a glance that they're Tommy's old hand-me-downs.

"How'd you know how to do that?" There's a tinge of awe in Ryan's hushed voice.

"Don't you remember when I drew an 'X' on Mom's white cowboy boots?"

Ryan thinks, then slowly nods. He remembers. It had been on a Saturday a few years earlier. A day in which Ryan had spent the majority of the afternoon at a birthday party he'd wanted no part of—attendance at which he'd vigorously protested against the minute the invitation arrived in their mail slot. But his parents had insisted. Because his mother thought it would be good for her younger son to socialize and play with other kids that weren't—well weren't Trey—and because his father thought it was abnormal that his younger son seemed to have no interest in having friends among his classmates.

Ryan had spent an uncomfortable afternoon in the company of children with whom he rarely interacted and had nothing in common and Trey had been supremely bored on a rainy summer day without his little brother around. So, Trey did what Trey normally did when bored. He sought out trouble and he found it. He'd come across his mother's white leather boots in the back of her closet and he'd carefully penned a big blue "X" on their toes, enjoying the feel of the pen as it repeatedly bit into the soft fleshy leather. He'd picked an "X" because he put an "X" on everything back then. The "X" was on the high school team's baseball caps—or it had been at the time. St. Pius X. The team with the fields only blocks away. The team that Trey followed so closely. The team the little boy was convinced that he'd play for some day. The same one that employed Fr. Kevin as it's coach. It was a natural insignia for St. Pius—or, at least it had been, until hats with an "X" became popular for completely unrelated reasons.

Dawn had displayed her uncanny ability to instantly detect Trey's transgressions when she discovered the boots a mere hour after Trey drew on them. She was understandably upset and incensed and had attempted to wipe out the distinct marks with nail polish remover and then with rubbing alcohol. Trey had been amazed at how quickly the marks faded—even though they didn't completely disappear—they didn't quite vanish entirely. A greenish ghost of an "X" remained readily visible on the toes. The shoes were still completely ruined despite Dawn's best efforts. Trey had been sure he was going to get the whipping of a lifetime when his dad got home. An idea that was reinforced by his mother, through her tears and her anger at the destruction of her favorite boots.

So, both mother and son had been caught off-guard with John's laughter at seeing the defaced shoes. John had laughed because he detested the tacky white boots and had been not-so-secretly pleased that they were no longer wearable. He'd even clasped Trey affectionately on the shoulder in appreciation of the demise of the despised shoes. There had been no beating that night, even though Trey hadn't gotten off scot-free. Trey'd been sent to bed without dinner for vandalizing his mother's footwear. A punishment Trey'd been only too eager to accept.

"Mom tried to get the ink out with nail polish remover and rubbing alcohol." Trey explains. "It didn't work—well, not completely—but it took most of it out."

"_Malcolm Tex_." Ryan whispers, remembering the nickname his father had called their mother for weeks afterwards.

"Exactly." Trey grins.

"Here." Trey hands Ryan a blue ballpoint pen. "You've got to color them in." Ryan takes the pen, his face a mask of confusion.

"Okay, I don't get it—color what in?"

"You can tell that the stripe isn't white—but only because it's next to other two. If we color in the other ones, then take the ink off, all three of them will look the same and it won't be so noticeable. Plus, if you rub dirt on it tomorrow on the way to school, I bet it'll look even better."

Ryan nods, he takes the shoe over to the bed, his face contorted with the concentration of penning in the outside stripes to Tommy Browning's shoes. Trey stays at the desk and completes his task of removing the ink on the right shoe.

It's as they're finishing their respective tasks that Dawn stumbles into the room, a little unsteady on her feet.

"Hey, you're not dressed for bed, yet?" She's surprised for an instant before noting what her younger son is doing—before seeing that Ryan is mutilating the shoes that they picked up at the church tonight—before yelling for her husband to come see what the boy has done.


	10. Chapter Ten

Usual disclaims apply. What I want and what I own are two completely different things.

**Muchtvs**, my dear, I sadly fear that I may have told you that I have a "neurological impingement" instead of a "neural impingement," which is really quite embarrassing—but just may more accurately describe my condition and my complete inability to think straight for the past few weeks.

As proof, I offer Chapter Ten:

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It's as they're finishing their respective tasks that Dawn stumbles into the room, a little unsteady on her feet.

Trey rotates his head to the sound of the bedroom door opening. He immediately notes how his mother trips a little on the edge of the carpet where it separates the boys' room from the vinyl flooring of the hallway beyond—how she reaches out with a quick hand and steadies herself on the doorframe.

"Hey, you're not dressed for bed, yet?" She's surprised for an instant before noting what her younger son is doing—before seeing that Ryan is mutilating the shoes that they picked up at the church tonight—before yelling for her husband to come see what the boy has done.

Because his mother's attention is so totally absorbed in his brother right now—because she's not even aware of her other son's presence—Trey takes the opportunity to furtively slip Tommy Browning's right shoe under the table, to drop it silently to the floor under the desk and to subtly kick it to where he hopes it's not visible. He then turns his body in his seat, hooks a casual elbow over the back of the chair and carefully watches as the interchange between his mother and his brother unfolds.

The first thing Trey notices is that Ryan could not look more guilty if Fr. Kevin himself caught him coloring on the confessional walls. The younger boy's whole body visibly stiffens at his mother's words, his eyes widen in panic and quickly dart to Trey and then back to his mother, his face reddens, he swallows hard, he takes a labored breath and—and then he does nothing. Except to convey his complete and utter surrender. His shoulders hunch, he fixes his eyes on the bedspread in front of him and he focuses on it with so much intensity, it is as if his continued existence depends entirely on his ability to deduce the precise number of white nylon stitches that hold together the stiff and faded navy fabric. Even though those stitches are likely to be so blurred under the force of his stare that Trey doubts he could even tell you how many are in the 1-inch square that lies directly under his nose. 

As Trey quickly considers and dismisses the thought that the comforter might actually spontaneously combust from the intensity of his little brother's concentrated look and give them all a welcomed distraction—and give his brother a momentary reprieve—he wishes for the umpteenth time that Ryan wouldn't always wear his heart so pathetically and prominently pinned to his sleeve—that his brother possess the ability to hide his emotions better—or even at all. That every single thought contemplated or feeling encountered wasn't so instantly and unmistakably broadcast through his little brother's expression and demeanor. Because Trey knows that looking guilty in the face of an accusation is just about the quickest way to guarantee you're going to get your ass kicked—and nobody's ever looked guiltier than Ryan does at this exact moment.

In the face of his brother's pitiful display of total desperation, Trey makes a silent promise to himself—and to Ryan—that he'll be more diligent in actively taking his little brother under his wing. That he'll make a concerted effort to teach him how to detach himself somewhat from all of the chaos that seems to perpetually engulf their family's home. That he'll show Ryan how to act more distant, how to be tougher—to be stronger. Because, if he can't teach Ryan how to be less sensitive—then, he isn't sure how he can continue to protect his little brother. Without some semblance of a functioning defense system, he's sure that Ryan will not be able to survive in an environment in which their father's beatings and their mother's rebukes are becoming more routine and more callous.

Not that Ryan's ever been a habitual target of either parent's annoyance or frustration—that's been Trey's domain—almost exclusively. Trey's the one who's constantly getting into trouble. The one who gets the notes sent home from school for the fighting, for neglecting to turn in the homework, for the failing of three tests in a row in social studies—for forging his father's signature on the note about the three failed exams. Not that trouble has to go far out of its way to find him. Or out of its way at all. Trey's reckless. He's stubborn and impulsive—and, for the most part, he just doesn't give a damn about the consequences. For the most part, the consequences don't even enter his mind—not even if his actions guarantee an ass kicking from his father or a hysterical tirade from his mother. Trey's learned that the ass kickings and the tirades happen anyway. So he figures that he might as well earn them. Or at least have some fun.

Ryan's different. He actually tries to behave. Well, most of the time. When he's not stealing cigarettes and stuffing them in a t-shirt and hiding them in the farthest recesses of his dresser drawer, or sneaking out for a late night smoke behind the shed in the backyard, anyway. He usually exerts a conscious effort to try to remain invisible to their father, to slip under his radar and to avoid detection. Because Ryan's well aware that unexpected attention from their father these days so often leads to the back of a hand or the wrong end of a belt—or a fist—for transgressions as minor as a broken dish, a raised voice, a defiant look.

Ordinarily, Ryan has little to fear from either parent. Ordinarily, his parents are preoccupied with the transgressions of their older son—transgressions both real and perceived. But, Trey's not entirely certain that something in the family dynamic hasn't fundamentally shifted tonight—that by stepping up to the plate after his reckless and monumentally stupid act of petty larceny, Ryan hasn't caused their father to pen his name in indelible ink on the card that enters him into the lineup and marks him as fair game.

So, looking at his brother's still form—huddled and pathetic on the bed—Trey vows that he will teach him the importance of saving such an outward display of contrition for when it really matters—for when it could possibly make a difference—for when it could be used in mitigation of punishment—and not when it can be presumed an admission of guilt.

"Aw, Ryan." Clearly exasperated, Dawn reaches out an impatient hand and waits. Ryan steals a tentative upward glance and quickly scoots himself to the edge of the bed when he realizes what his mother expects. He pushes himself to an upright position and shuffles over to where she remains, just inside the doorway to the room. He hands her Tommy Browning's left shoe and stands, a pitifully plaintive look on his upturned face. 

"Sorry." He whispers.

When their father's form fills the room's narrow doorway, Ryan's gaze instantly drops to the floor as his face registers the anxiety that he's feeling. Truth be told, Trey's a little uneasy as well. But, he wills himself to appear relaxed, to appear calm—a bemused spectator to his brother's folly. As Dawn holds the shoe up for John's inspection, Trey is quick to assess his father and to take note of the exact level of potential danger involved.

It's impossible not to immediately notice how John's taut and muscular biceps strain against the thin cotton fabric of his white t-shirt. The shirt is untucked, but short and tight enough across his lean abdomen to reveal that the top button of his jeans is now undone—and to show that he has not refastened his belt. Which isn't good news. Trey knows from unwanted experience that the familiar bite of the thick brown leather is substantially less painful than the sharper sting of a thinner and more readily accessible extension cord that is so often his father's second weapon of choice when retrieval of the first proves inconvenient. Trey's eyes quickly move to his father's feet. Strike two. He's still wearing his steel-tipped work boots. And the lit cigarette so casually dangling from his father's right hand is a definite strike three.

Not that John has ever purposefully burned either of the boys—or that Trey thinks that he ever would. But his father has been known to forget entirely about the cigarette's presence and the fact that it may come in contact with the same cheek that is the target of a quick blow from the back of the hand that holds it—or that hot ash may unintentionally fly off and strike exposed skin during the course of the impassioned gesticulation that so often accompanies his heated reprimands.

"Look what Ryan did." Dawn whines as she holds up Tommy Browning's shoe for her husband's inspection.

"Sorry."

"What the hell were you thinking?" His mother turns her attention back to her younger son and waves the shoe right under his downward turned nose. "These were perfectly good shoes, Ryan."

"Sorry." He whispers for the third time and Trey notes how he nervously moves the pen behind his back as if secreting the instrument of his vandalism will somehow make a crap's bit of difference. Trey waits for Ryan to give an explanation—to stick up for himself—or to tell his mom to fuck off. He's disappointed, but not in the least bit surprised, when his brother remains quiet. So, Trey adds another lesson to his mental checklist of things he's got to teach his little brother. Things that no one else will.

"He's just trying to make them look less like they belong to someone else." Trey finally offers, drawing his parents' attention squarely to himself.

"What?" Dawn asks as John leans a shoulder into the side of the doorway, crosses his ankles and takes a long drag. An absentminded thumb flicks the end of the cigarette, causing some ash to fall to the floor.

"The kid who threw those away goes to Ryan's school."

"So?"

"So, if Ryan knows who they belong to—well, everyone else is gonna know it, too." Sometimes his mother could be so fucking dense. Trey steals a quick glance at his father and notes his bemused expression—hopes that he, at least, may be getting it.

"They're perfectly good sneakers." His mother repeats.

"They're still perfectly good, Mom—Jesus, who cares? It's not like he took a knife to them or anything." Trey stops just short of telling his mother about the rubbing alcohol and the nail polish remover. There's no reason to tip off the parents that his earlier trip to the bathroom was all a ruse—not when to do so would most definitely not end well for him.

"Trey!"

"Yeah—yeah, I got it, Dad. Sorry. And sorry, Jesus." Trey clasps his hands together, pulls them to his chest and throws his eyes momentarily heavenward, before looking back to his father and letting his arms drop back to their original positions.

"I'll add it to my list for confession—I swear. But, I just don't get why this is a big deal. Ryan drew on some cruddy sneakers—sneakers that already had a stripe filled in. So now they have two. Who cares?" He just barely manages to stop himself from adding _the fuck_ between the "who" and the "cares." Because while he's all for helping Ryan out, seeing as he's the one who instructed his brother to write on the sneakers in the first place—he's still making a half-assed attempt to get out of the evening with no further damage done.

"John?" Dawn looks to her husband for support. She holds the shoe up for his inspection. He regards it for a few seconds from his position in the doorway before taking another languid draw on the cigarette. When he finally speaks, it's through the cloud of smoke that's escaping from his mouth and nose.

"As much as I hate to say it, I think I'm with the boy on this one. The shoes were already pretty goddamned ugly when you brought 'em home. Ryan looked like a fucking moron in them."

"That's not the point, John—the point is that he shouldn't be ruining perfectly good shoes."

"So, what do you want me to do about it, Dawn?" John's tone is sharp and his voice drips with the fatigue of a long and unsatisfying night. "You want me to take him into the other room and hit him with the belt again? You think I should smack him around a little and make him cry?"

"Of course not. I want you to tell him that what he did is wrong. That he shouldn't be going around and ruining perfectly good stuff."

"Hey, Ryan." John sighs, indicating that he wants his son to come closer with a nod of the head.

"I'm sorry." Ryan takes a few tentative steps towards his father, his eyes still downcast, his hands clasped behind his back, the pen nervously tapping against the small of his back.

"Try not to draw on anyone's ugly-assed shoes anymore."

"Yes, sir."

"And, you." John points an accusatory finger at his older son. "Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. It's goddamned disrespectful."

"Yes, sir." Trey quickly agrees, even though he couldn't possibly.

John puts the cigarette between his lips and, as he reaches out a quick hand, he tries not to notice how his son instinctively winces and jerks his head away. As he uncrosses his ankles and pushes himself upright, he runs his hand through Ryan's tousled hair and gruffly pulls the boy towards him by the back of his head. He holds him close for an awkward few seconds before releasing him.

"Now, go to bed—and I'd better not see or hear from either of you little pricks again tonight—or there _will_ be tears." His eyes fix on Ryan as he says the last words and Trey notices how the twin red smudges high on each of his brother's cheeks flush a slightly darker shade of crimson.

"Good night." John's sharp look lets Trey know that his father's completely aware that he's still being a wiseass.

"What—I'm not even allowed to say 'good night?' "

John shakes his head, but he's too damned tired to rise to the bait. He leaves the room, followed by his wife, who's still holding onto Tommy Browning's left shoe.

…………………………………………………………............................................................................................................................................

I think I've got one more chapter in me before I take the boys on a little vacation. The boys being Ryan and Trey, not my own boys. Because my boys are the kind you take vacations from, not the kind you vacation with. If you ever met my boys, you'd know what I mean. In fact, come over and meet my boys. We're looking for a babysitter. We can never find one who'll come back for round two. Oh, and just a hint, if you child is ever described as "something," "something else" or a "character" by those you pay to watch him—it's not a compliment. I'm just saying.


End file.
